


We Were Brothers Once

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:48:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: As Aramis struggles to find his place upon his return to Paris, an unexpected visitor helps the Musketeers discover the true meaning of brotherhood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on something Aramis says in “The Queen’s Diamonds” about his mother doing what she had to do for the sake of her children. Obviously, she had more than one. I assumed Aramis never knew them since he didn’t mention them but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there…

Erias ducked low, breathing in harsh gasps, his heart beating frantically in his chest. The group of riders slowed and his breath caught in his throat, sure he’d been spotted. The Vicomte’s men had been relentless, chasing him through the countryside for hours. He had no idea how far he’d come, his mad dash taking twists and turns, leaving him lost and confused as to where he’d been and which direction to go.

All he knew was that he could not let them take him. If they did, he would be executed and the Vicomte would win.

He was a simple innkeeper, not an adventurer, but when his old friend Lorent had pleaded with him to help rescue his daughter from the Comte’s estate, he had been unable to refuse. He had two daughters of his own, many years younger than Lorent’s, but he could easily imagine the terror of losing one of them to a man as wicked as the Vicomte Belvoir. The boy believed himself above the law of man or church, his cruelty well known, and Erias would no more allow Lorent’s daughter to suffer such a fate than his own beloved girls.

Pleas to the old and ailing Comte d’Evroux going unheard, Lorent had proposed drastic measures to save his sweet Claudette. She was a beautiful girl, only fourteen years old, but she had the misfortune of catching the Vicomte’s eye and he had ordered his men to take her as she made her way home from the bread shop nearly three days ago. When she had not arrived home, Lorent’s wife had raised the alarm, and it had been easy to discover what had happened. Belvoir’s men had taken her in front of witnesses, with little care for the consequences. 

Knowing the kind of violence the Vicomte capable of, Lorent had been ready to storm the castle and demand Claudette’s release until Erias had convinced him covertness the more effective approach. Under the cover of darkness, they had crept past the guards, found where they were holding the girl in the stables and spirited her away.

Unfortunately, neither of them were experienced criminals; they’d been seen, the alarm raised.

They had found themselves hunted and had stashed Claudette in an out of the way spot in the forest before leading their pursuers on a desperate chase. They had eventually split up, dividing the Vicomte’s men. Erias had no idea if Claudette was still safe, or if she or her father had been apprehended, but he kept running, leading his pursuers away from the village, hoping to lose them in the forest or make it far enough that they might give up the search. 

The sound of pistol fire echoed across the valley, and Erias jumped, instinctively covering his head with his arms. The gunshots were nowhere nearby, but he was still terrified. He’d never been shot at before – he’d never even held a pistol – and he had no idea how to handle himself under such dire circumstances.

The men shouted and turned their mounts, thundering back the way they’d come, and Erias heaved a sigh of relief, his body going slack as his mind whirled, the sudden silence confirming his luck had held.

He prayed the shots did not mean Lorent had been captured, but there was little he could do about that now. It was time to worry about his own situation.

He knew he couldn’t go home. It was highly likely he’d been recognized, and if not, it wouldn’t be hard to discover who had helped Lorent rescue his daughter. He’d forced Miren and the girls to leave their home above the Inn, encouraging her to visit with her sister in Argentan for a few weeks. He hadn’t wanted to risk their safety in case things went wrong – a sensible precaution he would forever be grateful for heeding.

He could head to Paris. It was a long way, due east, but he could make it if he traveled steadily, stopping for rest when he could. He’d entertained the thought of finding his long lost brother for quite some time, but there had always been something holding him back; the Inn, the birth of his daughters, the fear the man would want nothing to do with him… he closed his eyes, weighing the possibility of finding the young man within the city and whether or not his presence would be welcomed.

Aramis had been but an infant when Erias had left, his mother sending him off with his father in hopes he could have a better life. He had returned to the brothel after hearing of his mother’s death, hoping to find the boy, disappointed that he’d been sent off with his own father only months before. He’d spent a few days inquiring, but nobody knew of the man’s name nor where he’d taken the child and Erias had finally been forced to give up, realizing that he’d probably even changed his name making his search for little Aramis folly.

He’d returned to Evroux and worked hard, finally saving enough to buy the Inn and become a respectable merchant. He’d met Miren then and they’d started a family. He’d been content, thoughts of the brother he’d never known buried in the recesses of his mind, never given light until five years ago when travelers from Paris had brought stories of the Queen and her Musketeer lover.

The moment they had mentioned the name Aramis, Erias’ thoughts had returned to the baby he had held so long ago. It was quite a stretch to believe the child he remembered had grown to become a Musketeer, let alone one who had committed the treasonous act of sleeping with the Queen. But how many men named Aramis could there be? Though an uncommon moniker, it was quite possible the man could be turn out to be someone else entirely, but the possibility remained and the urge to find his brother had been rekindled in Erias’ mind.

Gossip of Spanish spies and royal intrigue had followed as more people drifted west from the city. The rumors of the Queen’s infidelity were proven to be lies and the King’s First Minister had been revealed a traitor and killed by the Musketeers. It had all been very exciting and most of the stories had been largely embellished by the time they reached Evroux. Then the war with Spain had begun and all thoughts of court intrigue were swept away by the ugly, bloody truth of battle.

It had been almost five years since he’d thought of his brother, but now, with few options, he wondered if perhaps the Musketeer Aramis was the child he remembered. He recalled the baby’s shock of dark hair and his warm eyes, already a dark brown at such a young age. He had no idea if he would recognize his brother as a man or not, but it was possible he would find safety with the Musketeers – at least long enough for the Vicomte to move on to some other interests.

With the decision made, he pushed himself up from the brush he’d taken refuge behind and stumbled back to the road, hoping like hell he could find his way to Paris.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan pressed the small round piece of fruit to his nose, inhaling the fresh citrus scent. He sighed in delight. It had been ages since he’d tasted an orange, the last one from his mother’s lovingly cultivated tree back in Gascony. She’d been given the potted tree as a wedding gift from an uncle who resided in northern Italy and had treated the plant with such care and attention his father would often refer to it as her little orange child. D’Artagnan smiled at the memory. The tree had never grown very large, but it had produced sweet, tangy fruit for years. An insect infestation had finally brought about its doom. Try as she might, his mother couldn’t save the tree and the delicious taste of the fruit had become nothing more than a fond memory.

When he’d offered to go to the market to arrange for Constance’s list of supplies for the garrison, the last thing he’d expected to find was fresh oranges, piled high in a stall on the edge of the throng of people. When he’d vocalized his surprise, the woman manning the stall had explained of the orangery that had been built in the foothills near Chatillon a few years before. Since Chatillon sat only twenty-five leiue south of Paris, it was inevitable the produce would find its way to the city. If the market goers’ initial reaction to the fruit was any indication, the owners of the orangery were set to make a fortune. The woman planned on having a steady supply and assured him if he was interested in buying in bulk for the garrison, she would make him a fair deal.

Tempted, he decided to buy a dozen for the time being, hoping the delicious, juicy taste would sway Constance into making them a staple for the Musketeers. They normally had apples and sometimes figs as treats, but oranges were something that had never been available to them in his recollection. He was eager to introduce the fruit to his friends and set off, bag nestled in his arms, a smile of anticipation on his youthful face. It was difficult to stop himself from tearing into one as he walked, but he forced himself to wait, content for the moment with the sweet aroma and tangible connection to his past.

So lost in his anticipation, he didn’t notice the two men at the outer gate of the garrison until he was almost upon them. Brujon, one of Constance’s favorite recruits, stood guard, bodily barring the path of a tall, dark haired man who was obviously trying to gain entrance. The man was waving his arm, agitated, but Brujon held firm. D’Artagnan replaced the orange into the bag and hurried across the road, hoping to stave off any confrontation that might be brewing. 

His brows rose in question as he caught Brujon’s gaze. The young recruit tilted his head toward the irate man, holding up a hand against his chest as he tried to push past him into the archway. 

“Is there a problem?” d’Artagnan asked casually as he approached. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Brujon, doubling the barrier between the tall man and the garrison gate.

The man turned and eyed d’Artagnan up and down. He huffed at the new obstacle and pointed to Brujon. frustration evident in his tone. “The problem is this boy will not allow me to pass.”

“That’s his job,” d’Artagnan responded conversationally. “May I ask what your business is with the Musketeers?”

The man shifted impatiently. “That is between myself and the Musketeers.”

D’Artagnan brushed his cloak off his shoulder, revealing the leather pauldron signifying his status within the regiment. “Then you’re in luck, Monsieur…” He let the sentence trail off, hoping the man would fill in the blank.

“Erias LaMonte,” he supplied, bowing slightly. “My apologies, but it is vital I speak with the Musketeer named Aramis. I was under the assumption I would be able to find him here.”

D’Artagnan nodded, taking a moment to assess their visitor.

The man stood perhaps a bit taller than him, his dark hair cropped close to his head. His face was angular, handsome, a thin white scar across his cheek marring the tanned skin. He did not wear a beard, but it was obvious he’d not shaved recently, stubble dotting his chin and cheeks. The man’s eyes were brown, gold flecks glinting in the early morning sun. d’Artagnan could not sense any threat in those eyes, but there was something, a nervousness that set him on alert. He didn’t think this man meant Aramis harm – though if it had been before the war, the first thought would’ve been a jealous husband come to collect retribution from the promiscuous man. Four years in a monastery – not to mention the affair with the Queen that had almost cost him his life – had tempered Aramis’ romantic nature. He’d suspected his friend had perhaps fallen into his old ways when he’d left with the woman from his past – Pauline – but Constance had quickly set him straight on that account. As far as d”Artagnan knew, Aramis hadn’t been with a woman since his return – a feat none of them had ever believed possible before the war.

“Since I’ve only arrived myself, I am not certain Aramis is present in the garrison as of yet, but I will inquire for you Monsieur LaMonte.”

“Thank you.” The man sighed in relief at the Gascon’s capitulation. With a mumble of apology to Brujon, he followed d’Artagnan through the archway, coming to a stop when the young Musketeer held up a hand just inside the courtyard.

“Wait here,” he ordered before continuing, the bag of oranges all but forgotten in his arms. 

A quick look around showed Aramis and Porthos seated at their usual table and he tucked the bag more securely to his chest and marched across the yard toward his friends. Athos stepped out of his office onto the landing above, noting the Gascon’s determined stride and made his way down the stairs, landing on the packed dirt just as d’Artagnan approached.

“Who is our visitor?” the Captain asked, his gaze flicking toward the man standing just inside the archway. The man shifted, well aware of the scrutiny, but did not avert his attention. Athos narrowed his eyes, studying the man from afar. It wasn’t unusual for them to receive visitors at the garrison, but with the unrest due to Governor Feron’s death and Grimaud’s exploits of late, they would be remiss not to exercise caution.

“He says he’s looking for Aramis,” d’Artagnan replied, throwing a glance back toward the archway. He was pleased to see LaMonte had done as he was told, shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes tracking the young Musketeer as he moved on toward the table.

Athos brows rose as he fell into step with the younger man. “His reason?”

“He didn’t state one,” d’Artagnan admitted. “I was hoping Aramis would recognize him before I allowed him further access.”

“Good. Considering it is Aramis he’s looking for, caution is always advisable.”

D’Artagnan chuckled and the Captain grinned in return.

Aramis and Porthos sat on opposite sides of the table, quietly breaking fast with the gruel that had been served as the morning meal. It seemed strange to not hear the two old friends’ familiar banter, but their relationship had been strained since their return to Paris, Porthos still hanging onto resentment for what he feels was a personal slight, and Aramis unrepentant for doing what he felt he had to do. Their discord was not lost on the other two, the loss of the familiar camaraderie a strain on them all. It was getting better, but there was still a thin veil of strife that colored their actions and d’Artagnan was beginning to fear they would never be able to return to the easy friendship they used to enjoy. Remembering the oranges, d’Artagnan pulled one from the bag and tossed it toward the table. Aramis caught it easily without bothering to look up. 

“Are these oranges?” He took a long sniff, and exhaled a decadent sigh. Of course Aramis would know what an orange was, d’Artagnan realized. Though it was hardly the surprise he’d planned, the Gascon was pleased to see the delight shining in his friend’s dark eyes. “Constance sent you for grain I believe.” Aramis juggled the round piece of fruit expertly in his hands, an elated grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “However will you explain this?”

d’Artagnan could tell the marksman’s frivolity was forced, but he was thankful the man continued to pretend things were normal between them. Perhaps if they all pretended long enough, the lie would become true. Only time would heal the wounds inflicted by what they’d all experienced the last four years, but while Aramis continued to search for his place within their new dynamic, d’Artagnan would do whatever he could to help ease his way. 

He returned Aramis’ smile, arching a brow haughtily. “I’m certain she will forgive my indulgence the moment she bites into one of these gems.”

Aramis bobbed his head in agreement, his laughter reflected in his eyes. “You’re learning my young friend. There may be hope for you yet.” He leaned to the side, glancing past them toward the man still waiting on the opposite side of the courtyard. “Are you going to tell us who your new friend is?” he inquired as he began to peel the orange skin back from the juicy piece of fruit.

“Actually, we were hoping you could tell us.” Athos intoned.

Aramis frowned, staring at the stranger. After a few moments he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, returning his attention to the orange. “He doesn’t look familiar. Why would you think I’d know him?”

“He asked for you by name,” d’Artagnan informed him. “Says his name is Erias LaMonte. You don’t recognize him?”

“Probably a jealous husband.”

Aramis looked askance at Porthos’ sleepy mumble but didn’t respond though it was obvious the slight had been recognized. Placing the orange carefully on the top of the table, he pushed himself up and reached for his hat that lay on the bench beside him.

“Let’s see what our guest wants, shall we?”

He stepped around the table without bothering to excuse himself and strode past d’Artagnan with a forced smile. 

Athos caught Porthos’ eye and shook his head in exasperation, garnering a sheepish shrug from the big Musketeer.

“Force of habit,” he admitted, repentant.

With a sigh, the Captain turned to follow the marksman across the courtyard.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos kept his eyes on the stranger as he approached. Aramis was smiling, his hand outstretched in greeting, showing no signs of trepidation at the new arrival. Although the marksman had shown little sign he’d resumed his promiscuity since their return, he’d always been a secretive man, never allowing his affairs to become public knowledge unless he chose to make them so. 

Porthos’ comment flittered through his head, but he shook it away; Aramis was still in love with the Queen no matter how hard he tried to deny it. Whether he would be able to continue the ruse was yet to be determined, but Athos knew he was trying to make the best of an impossible situation. Once his friend had given his heart, there was little that could sway him to betray that commitment, so he doubted Aramis had done anything that would warrant a jealous husband or lover to seek him out. Of course, with Aramis, it never hurt to be prepared.

“I am Aramis,” Athos stopped just behind his friend as he introduced himself. “And this is Athos, Captain of the Musketeers. D’Artagnan informs me you were asking for me?”

Athos hid a smirk, unsurprised his friend had known exactly who had followed him without turning around. The man’s uncanny ability to see everything around him without looking had always been an astounding trait.

The man eyed Athos pointedly but the Captain made no move to leave and returned the stare. Their guest sighed, reluctantly accepting he would not be allowed privacy for this encounter. 

He turned his attention to Aramis who remained smiling expectantly before him. 

“My name is Erias LaMonte. I am an inn keeper from the village of Evroux.”

Aramis frowned, turning to Athos with a shrug. “I can’t remember having traveled to Evroux recently.” He raised his brows in question, but the Captain shook his head as well.

“Nor have I. Though we may have passed near sometime during the war without realizing.”

Aramis accepted the answer and returned his attention to their guest. “Since it seems we have never been to your village, Monsieur, what is it you wish to discuss?”

With another glance toward Athos, LaMonte reached into the pouch around his waist and pulled out a tattered red ribbon. It was tied at the ends, a small tarnished locket strung from the aged satin. He held it out toward Aramis who plucked it from is grasp with a grin. He held the ribbon reverently, allowing the small locket to nestle in the palm of his hand.

“This color….” His eyes studied the small trinket, a wistful smile on his lips. “I remember a ribbon of this color. It always hung around my mother’s neck, a small silver cross attached to it.” He glanced back at Athos, his eyes shining with the memory of his past. “I’d forgotten all about it.” 

“I, too, received this from my mother.” 

Aramis’ attention swung back to LaMonte, his brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued.

“Her name was Giatta,” the man continued. 

Athos watched Aramis carefully as the Musketeer’s face paled. He stepped closer, protectively, his instincts sensing something amiss.

“Giatta….” Aramis murmered, his gaze traveling from LaMonte to the ribbon and back again. “My mother’s name…”

LaMonte smile was warm, knowing, and Athos’ trepidation began to melt away. This man did not mean his friend harm, he was certain of it. But…

“I know,” LaMonte nodded. “It has taken me far too long to find you.”

Aramis shook his head, suddenly at a loss as what to say or do. “What do you mean?”

“I’m your brother, Aramis.”

The marksman’s knees shook and Athos stepped forward, offering support with his close proximity. Aramis was still pale, his eyes wide, staring at the face before him. Now that the claim had been made, Athos could not deny the similarities between the two men. Erias was taller, his face more angular, but the nose, the chin and the eyes – especially the eyes – were enough to convince the Captain he could very well be who he claimed.

Aramis gasped in shock as he made the same realization. “Brother?” He shook his head, his fist tightening around the ribbon, crushing it with his strength. “I can’t… I don’t…” He swallowed and bowed his head, taking a moment to regain his composure. Athos had grown up with Thomas, so he knew exactly how it felt to have a true brother by his side. He could only imagine what it would be like to have one drop in from out of nowhere after a lifetime.

“I knew she must have had other children,” Aramis mumbled, finally raising his head, his expression one of wonder. “I simply never thought to meet any of them. Where have you been all these years? How did you find me?”

Erias grinned and shrugged a shoulder in a gesture Athos found painfully familiar. “The name Aramis is not one you hear every day. When rumors from Paris found their way to Evroux, I had to take the chance.”

“Rumors?” Athos questioned, alarmed by the statement. It had been over four years since Rochefort had almost succeeded in having Aramis and the Queen put to death, but the memory still haunted them all. If those rumors were still circulating… he silently thanked the God Aramis believed in so fervently for returning him to them.

“The ones about the Musketeer and the Queen,” Erias said, confirming his fears. “They were all lies, I know, but the moment the name Aramis was mentioned, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Musketeer was the same squalling little baby I remembered from a lifetime ago.”

Aramis had obviously decided LaMonte was telling the truth, his face lighting up in a radiant smile Athos couldn’t remember seeing since before the war. The marlsman opened his arms and pulled the taller man into a hug, slapping him on the back a few times. His laughter echoed through the garrison.

“Athos! Can you believe it?” He turned to the Captain, his arm around Erias’ neck and shoulder. “This is my brother!”

Athos couldn’t help but return the grin. “So I’ve surmised.”

“Come meet my friends!” 

He steered Erias toward the table where d’Artagnan and Porthos remained, both men watching the proceedings with guarded interest. Athos caught Porthos eye and shrugged. Whether or not this man was truly Aramis’ brother was yet to be determined, but for now, LaMonte’s arrival had lifted he pall that had covered Aramis like a shroud and Athos was willing to give in to the folly simply to see the marksman’s demeanor lightened for while. They would, of course, investigate the claim, and if it proved false, there would be no apology for the wrath Aramis’ Musketeer brothers would lay at Erias LaMonte’s feet.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me that I was remiss in thanking my beta-extraordinaire, Sharlot, who tirelessly slogs through these stories and keeps me on the straight and narrow. Bad Sue. Couldn't do it without ya, hon. You're the bestest. :)

Chapter 2

“How long has it been?” d’Artagnan poured some ale into their mugs and settled back onto the bench. His eyes danced between the new arrival and Aramis’ delighted face. The last time he’d seen his friend this happy was when he’d recognized them in the cellar of the monastery in Douai. His smile had been tempered by disbelief back then as it was now, but after the trials and disappointments of the last few months, the Gascon was glad to see the much welcome hint of joy and wonder in the marksman’s eyes.

Erias nodded his head in thanks and took a long drink from the mug before responding. “Like Aramis, my mother sent me to live with my father when I was ten or eleven years of age. Aramis was only a baby then, perhaps two? So it is going on almost twenty-five, thirty years since I’ve seen him.” His gaze shifted to Aramis, a gentle smile curving his lips. “He was quite a fussy little child, if I remember correctly. But he loved to be held; would quiet right down when someone cradled him in their arms. And there was no shortage of willing women around to coo and cuddle with the pretty little baby.” At Aramis’ cough of embarrassment, Erias’ smile widened. “He had a shock of dark curls, pretty much like he does now.” He reached out and tousled the wild locks, laughing as Aramis pushed his hand away, mumbling something untoward under his breath. 

“That explains a lot,” Porthos snorted, throwing a knowing glance at his friend.

Aramis ignored him. “You said you went with your father, where did you go? Everoux?”

“No, to a village not far from there. Argentan. It is where I met my wife, Miren.”

“Wife?” Aramis seized on the word. “You’re married!”

Erias nodded. “With two beautiful daughters. Gianna and Bridgette.”

Aramis beamed as he glanced at the faces of his friends. “I’m an uncle!” He held up his mug, clanking it against d’Artagnan’s.

“To uncles!” the Gascon grinned, downing the ale in salute. Porthos and Athos joined in, a bit more reserved than the others.

“So why now?” Athos asked. It was obvious he was suspicious of Erias, even thought Aramis seemed to believe the man without reservation. “Why seek out Aramis after all these years?”

Erias sighed, his eyes dropping to the tabletop as he considered the question. “Like I said before, I had always entertained thoughts of trying to find him, but had little information to guide my search.” He looked at each of them, his eyes finally coming to rest on Aramis who sat rapt with attention. “When I learned of our mother’s death, I was only fourteen, but I convinced my father to allow me to return to the brothel to find out what had happened to you. I was told you had left only weeks before with your true father. I was glad for you. I’d hoped to find out where you had gone, but no one seemed to know anything other than a name; d’Herblay.” He took another sip of the ale before continuing. “When I bought the inn, I kept my ears open over the years, hoping for some mention of the name, but I heard nothing. I had resigned myself to never finding you when about five or six years ago, travelers from Paris brought stories of a Musketeer who had been accused of treason, of sleeping with the Queen.” His eyes on the table, he didn’t notice the others stiffen and went on with his narrative. “I considered it folly, of course, a romantic tale that had grown to epic proportions as rumors are want to do.” He looked up finally, a ghost of a smile on his face. “But then someone mentioned a name; Aramis.” He shrugged. “I almost swallowed my tongue right there and then. Poor Miren, she thought I was about to have an attack of some kind.”

D’Artagnan chuckled, watching Aramis as he drank in Erias’ words like a man dying of thirst. 

“After that, I tried to gather all the information I could,” Erias admitted. “Rumors swelled about treason and Spanish spies and corruption in the palace… and then the war.” His countenance shifted and his eyes took on a haunted expression. “I don’t need to tell you the horrors of war.” 

D’Artagnan grunted and shook his head in understanding. The awfulness of battle was something that was not lost on the Musketeers. “Did the fighting come close to Evroux?”

“Close enough.” Erias shuddered at the memories. “Sometimes we could hear the cries of the dying left on the fields of battle at night. I wanted to help them but…” he let his words trail off and Aramis grasped his shoulder in sympathy. 

“Sometimes there is nothing that can be done but to leave the dead to their peace.”

The others nodded, the solemn silence lasting a few moments until Erias cleared his throat, lifting the mug once more in the air. “To those who gave everything for France. May they rest in God’s glory.”

“Amen,” Aramis responded as he clanked his mug against Erias’ and d’Artagnan’s. Since Athos and Porthos were out of reach, they simply lifted theirs in silent homage.

“So you heard Aramis’ name mentioned in rumors and that was enough to lead you to Paris?”

D’Artagnan threw a questioning glance toward Athos, something in the Captain’s tone making the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Athos ignored him, his eyes focused intently on Erias’ face. The man met his stare evenly.

“A guest traveling to the coast brought news that the famous Musketeers had returned to Paris. With the war finally pushing past toward the northern territories, I thought it as good a time as any to find out once and for all if the man I heard about was in fact the baby brother I’d lost so long ago.” He turned his attention to Aramis, placing a hand on the marksman’s back. “I knew you the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Porthos snorted in disbelief. “You recognized a man you ‘aven’t seen since he was a child?”

The big Musketeer’s skepticism didn’t damper Erias’ conviction, and d’Artagnan noted how his expression grew fonder in the face of the other’s doubt. “He is the spitting image of our mother. How could I not know him immediately?”

Aramis blushed and dropped his eyes, but the tiny smile lifting his lips betrayed his pleasure at the sentiment.

“I hardly remember her,” the marksman admitted. “Her face is but a shadow to me now.”

“You need only look in the mirror, brother. You have her eyes.”

Aramis ducked his head, content with the comparison.

D’Artagnan caught Erias’ gaze and smiled. Whether everything he’d said was true or not, for the moment, Aramis was happy in a way d’Artagnan had not seen him for a long while. If this stranger’s claims proved false, they would deal with it later, but for now, he was grateful that the chance of finding someone he didn’t even know he’d lost had given Aramis back the hope that he could find himself again amidst the turmoil they were currently immersed within.

“As loathe as I am to interrupt this happy reunion, duty calls.” Athos voice held a touch of reluctance, but d’Artagnan couldn’t tell if it was for the interruption of Aramis’ elation or their questioning of Erias’ intentions. “Aramis, my friend, you and Porthos are due at the palace shortly. Would you like me to find someone to take your place? I’m sure there is someone else available to escort the Queen and the Dauphin to the gardens.”

Aramis threw his friend a dark look that was met with one of reproach. D’Artagnan shook his head at the Captain’s blatant manipulation of the marksman’s loyalties.

“I wouldn’t hear of disrupting your duties,” Erias said in dismay. “We’ve waited thirty years for our reunion, I’m sure another few hours won’t make a difference.” He avoided Athos’ eyes, instead glancing at d’Artagnan who was barely able to choke back a startled chuckle. It wasn’t often someone got the better of Athos, but when it did happen, it was enough to take them all by surprise.

Erias pushed himself from the bench, bowing to each of them in turn. “It was a pleasure to meet you all. I hope I have the occasion to know all of you better.”

“Meet us later at the Wren,” Aramis suggested as he followed his brother to his feet. “I for one, am interested in learning about the trials and tribulations of innkeeping in Evroux.”

Erias laughed, a bright, full sound that reminded d’Artagnan of Aramis’ from long ago. He stood and added his voice to the invitation.

“As would I.” He held a hand out to Erias who took it with gratitude.

“Then I shall await your arrival.” He bowed his head to Athos and Porthos before returning his attention to Aramis. “Perhaps you could walk me out?”

Without a glance to the others, Aramis smiled and threw an arm around Erias’ shoulders, steering him back across the courtyard toward the archway.

D’Artagnan rounded the table, coming to stand beside Athos and Porthos as they watched the two men disappear through the gate.

“You don’t believe him,” d’Artagnan stated the obvious.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Athos corrected.

D’Artagnan waved a hand toward the gate. “Anyone with eyes could see he was telling the truth, Athos. He looked and acted so much like Aramis, how can they not be related?”

Athos exchanged a glance with Porthos who shrugged, but remained silent. “It is not that I doubt his claim,” he explained. “I just wonder at the timing.”

“He explained all that,” d’Artagnan huffed, not liking the way his friend’s were ready to tear at the one true spot of happiness Aramis had been able to find. “Aramis is his only living relative. Why wouldn’t he seek him out?”

Athos sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You’re right, of course. Perhaps I am being a bit more suspicious than necessary.” He turned and glanced at Porthos, tilting his head toward the gate. “I believe your presence is needed at the Louvre?” His voice held a hint of suggestion d’Artagnan couldn’t quite read, but Porthos sighed and nodded. He placed his hat carefully on his head and strode toward the archway in the wake of the others.

Without another word, Athos moved toward the stairway, leaving d’Artagnan standing alone, hands on hips, the sinking feeling things were not as auspicious as they seemed.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos sighed for the hundredth time as Aramis watched the Dauphin frolic about in the gardens. The marksman’s grin, under any other circumstance, would be infectious, but here, in the presence of the Queen and her son, it was dangerous.

A few nights ago, half in his cups, Aramis had relayed what had happened between himself and the King in the royal crypt. Porthos’ heart had seized as he regaled him with Louis’ threats to have him tortured and hanged for treason, somehow concluding that that one part of Rochefort’s story held true. Aramis had no idea how or why Louis had been convinced his wife’s and Aramis’ affair was fact, but in the last four years, he’d come to believe it so, and Porthos feared for his friend’s life more now than ever. The fact Aramis showed no outward sign of worry that the King would make good on his threats was something the big Musketeer could neither fathom nor appreciate.

They stood stationed at the entrance to the gardens, both in full view of the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting. While the Queen remained regal as always, nobody could miss the errant glances thrown their way – nor could anyone miss Aramis’ countering smile. Perhaps it was simply because he knew – and dreaded – the possible outcome of such a display, but Porthos couldn’t help but be frustrated by the lack of sense they both showed considering their precarious predicament within the palace.

“Stop it,” he hissed, sidling closer to the marksman and throwing an elbow into the man’s side.

Aramis grunted in annoyance. “Stop what? I’m merely in a good mood. Would you rather I pretend to be as dour as you or Athos?”

“It’d be a start,” he conceded. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into keeping the King’s threats from Athos and Treville in the first place.” When Aramis had realized he’d spilled everything the King had said, he swore Porthos to secrecy, promising to keep his distance as much as possible until Louis gave orders forbidding him access to the Louvre. Porthos had reluctantly agreed, assuming those orders would come sooner rather than later.

But no orders had been issued, and even though Athos made a point of trying to keep their trouble-prone friend as far from temptation as possible, their numbers were small and it was impossible to keep Aramis’ name from palace rotation indefinitely without arousing suspicion. The fact that suspicion was hardly a concern anymore was a point that had yet to be brought to either the Captain’s or Minister’s attention.

“Besides,” Aramis continued unabated. “I have just been introduced to a brother I never even knew I had. Why would I not be elated at the prospect?”

“Because the elation may be taken for somethin’ else entirely.”

Aramis tutted, his smile tempered in the face of Porthos’ indictment. “You, my friend, worry far too much.”

“The King threatened to have you hanged,” Porthos retorted angrily. “How is that worrying too much?”

Aramis fidgeted, his eyes following the Dauphin as he chased after a fluttering insect. “Yet he has not acted on that threat.” The marksman waved a hand dismissively. “And when and if he does, there is little to be done. If his majesty wants me dead, he will be compelled to explain why, which will bring about a scandal he has no desire to cope with.”

Porthos studied the marksman’s profile, not liking how calm and unconcerned he seemed to be. “What are you goin’ on about?”

Aramis sighed but kept his eyes trained on the group of courtiers before them. “If Louis deigns to make his concerns public, he not only condemns his wife but his son as well. He’s dying Porthos. He cannot leave the country without an heir or the crown will fall to Gaston. He may not be as wise a ruler as his father, but Louis is no fool. Leaving Gaston on the throne would ruin France and Louis would rather perpetuate a lie than leave such a legacy.” He paused, his countenance turning somber for a moment. The King had traveled to Fontainebleau to consult with his physicians, so they were in no immediate danger of being discovered, but it was obvious Aramis knew the danger he was in just by being near his son. When he continued his voice held a touch of reluctance. “Besides, Louis truly does love the boy. I don’t for a moment believe he would want to see the child persecuted.”

Porthos watched the boy run through a small copse of flowers after the butterfly, his small hands rising up trying to snatch it from the air. He considered the explanation, but even the logic of his friend’s argument couldn’t completely dissolve the irritation the situation presented. “So you have it all figured out, huh?”

Aramis turned to him, a look of sadness flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps. But I know my opportunities are limited. Once Louis returns and makes his displeasure known, neither Athos nor Treville will allow me anywhere near the palace. Until then, I must take advantage of any opportunity I have.”

Porthos huffed, knowing he didn’t have it in him to deny his friend, even though it could quite possibly lead to his doom.

“I know you don’t approve,” Aramis conceded. “And I am sorry to force your silence, knowing you are simply trying to act for my own welfare, but please Porthos, allow me this.”

“Fine. Just stop grinnin’.”

Aramis dipped his head in acquiescence. “I shall endeavor to comply.”

A shriek of childish laughter bubbled up from the garden and Aramis’ attention was immediately drawn to the source of the sound, his face lighting up in a fond smile.

Porthos shook his head and swallowed his rebuke, knowing it would most certainly fall on deaf ears. It would be a long day. His eyes moved around the gardens, watching, searching, hoping that no one else would notice the look a paternal pride that shone in his friend’s eyes.

 

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos tossed the last of the scrolls onto the pile, sitting back in his chair and taking a deep cleansing breath. He’d been immersed in paperwork, hoping to distract himself from the morning’s revelations, unable to quell the sense of trepidation he’d been feeling since the man claiming to be Aramis’ long lost brother had stepped foot inside the garrison gates. It wasn’t that he suspected the man was lying – d’Artagnan had been accurate in the respect that the similarities between their friend and Erias LaMonte were too obvious to disregard – but considering the hostilities they faced in the city at the moment, it would be dangerous to accept LaMonte’s claims at face value. While the Captain appreciated the light LaMonte had brought to Aramis’ eyes, he could not blindly accept his claims as true based on nothing more than his own testimony.

Without any more garrison duties to attend to, his mind was left to ponder just how he might verify LaMonte’s story without upsetting his friend. He could tell Aramis had his heart set on the idea of a blood relative who truly wished to be a part of his life. The marksman had too many people he cared about who remained forever out of his reach and Athos could understand how tempting it would be to find one who wished to know him better and give him a type of family security he longed for. 

Though Aramis considered Porthos, d’Artagnan and himself brothers, Athos alone could contest to the difference between a brother in spirit and one of blood. After all these years, he still found himself missing Thomas; the closeness they shared as children overshadowing his later doubts, the face of the boy he’d cherished still focused in his heart and mind. Aramis could never know that kind of closeness considering he grew up without his brother, but Athos hoped he could find something similar – if only to ease the burden of longing that weighed upon his shoulders. 

Dealing with the aftermath of Grimaud’s attacks had taken much of his attention as he, Porthos and d’Artagnan healed, and he had not inquired as to what had passed between Aramis and the King on their sojourn to the royal crypt. Aramis had not volunteered information, but considering the marksman’s growing melancholy, Athos suspected there had been some sort of confrontation between the two and did not believe the inevitable fallout would favor the Musketeer. Louis’ disdain for the Queen had become increasingly apparent, and if he had not made plans to travel to Fontainebleau, Athos would fear for his friend’s continued existence. Perhaps it was simply Louis’ reaction to the death of Governor Feron or fear of his own imminent demise, but Athos suspected the King had come to the conclusion all of them had feared he someday might.

The fact that the Queen and the Dauphin remained in Paris did not bode well for any of them. Athos could only hope that whatever the King suspected would remain no more than speculation, overshadowed by the trials he would soon face concerning his failing health. With no other heir than the Dauphin, even if Louis somehow did realize the boy’s true paternity, Athos could not fathom his Majesty putting the country at such a risk – especially in these turbulent times.

A knock at his door interrupted his discouraging train of thought. Brujon leaned his head through the doorway at Athos summons.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain,” the recruit apologized. “But there is a man here to see you. He says he is a representative of the Comte d’Evroux.”

The name immediately set off alarms in Athos’ head. 

“Show him in.”

He waited, brow furrowed as Brujon stepped aside and a well-dressed man rudely pushed his way into the office. The recruit hesitated in the doorway for a moment until Athos nodded, silently dismissing him. When the door closed, Athos gave the new arrival his full attention.

“And what may I do for the Comte d’Everoux?”

The man bowed formally, pulling the feathered hat from his head, revealing a shock of tousled blonde hair. The sudden reminder of another blond Comte they had the bad luck to encounter all those years ago, set Athos even more on edge.

“I am Pierre Cardonne, Captain of the Comte’s guard,” the man introduced himself with an air of self-importance. “I have already spoken with Captain Marcheaux of the Red Guard and am here to inform you of the arrival of my contingency as a courtesy.”

“Your contingency,” Athos repeated. “You realize you have no authority here in Paris.”

Cardonne narrowed his eyes in defiance. “I am under the authority of the Comte d’Everoux –“

“Who also has no authority here in Paris,” Athos interrupted. “Unless the King sees fit to grant it. I have received no such orders from his Majesty.” Athos settled back into his chair, pleased to see the man before him bristle with indignation. He’d spent half his life dealing with the arrogance of the nobility, he had no intention of giving credence to it now. “What is your mission here, Monsieur?”

Cardonne huffed at the lack of title, but responded nonetheless. “I have been tasked with tracking a thief and murderer. I have been assured by Captain Marcheaux the Red Guard will not interfere in our search. I expect the same from the Musketeers.”

Athos ignored the thinly veiled order. “You said this man was a murderer. Who did he kill?” While Cardonne’s brusque manner was off-putting on its own, his physical resemblance to Rochefort made it impossible for the Musketeer to see past his inherent arrogance.

“The Comte himself,” Cardonne squared his shoulders as he relayed the information. “It is his son and heir who has tasked me with this command. So you can understand why it is paramount that it be my men who apprehend this monster and see him pay for his crimes.”

Athos nodded sagely. He could comprehend the man’s need to see justice served, but it still didn’t give him the right to conduct a manhunt inside the city. There was enough unrest in the streets without the addition of hired thugs harassing innocent people. “You believe this man is in Paris?”

“We trailed him to a point just west of the city wall,” Cardonne explained, his patience obviously waning. “Captain Marcheaux assured me my men would not be interfered with –“

“Marcheaux does not speak for the Musketeers.” Athos’ smile was cold. The Captain of the Red Guard’s capitulation was another mark against the Comte’s man. “I assume you have proof of this man’s transgressions?”

“He was seen leaving the estate grounds on the night in question. My Lord’s body was found soon after.”

“That is hardly proof of guilt,” Athos scoffed. “But I can understand your need to question him. I assume you have a description of this suspect?”

“I have better than that,” Cardonne responded. “I have a name. Erias LaMonte.”

Athos was careful to show no reaction. “When you find this LaMonte, what are your orders?”

“To return him to Evroux so the new Comte can exact justice.” Cardonne announced as if it were obvious.

“You mean to hang him.”

“Of course.”

“Without a trial?”

Cardonne’s chuckle made the hair on the Captain’s arms stand on end. “He will be given a fair trial before he is executed. He is a dangerous man, Captain.”

“Why did LaMonte murder the Comte? Did he have a quarrel with the man?” 

The man’s certainty troubled Athos, and he found he could not reconcile the image of the Erias LaMonte he had met with the viscous criminal Cardonne professed him to be. He admittedly had his doubts about LaMonte’s reasons for seeking Aramis out, but he’d sensed no outright animosity in him. In fact, the way Aramis and d’Artagnan had taken to the man spoke decidedly in his favor. 

“Why do these peasants do anything,” Cardonne spat. “He was probably trying to rob the estate and got caught. I don’t see how it matters, Captain. I have made my request, will you honor it?”

Surprised at his sudden change in opinion considering LaMonte, Athos realized it was his duty as Captain to cooperate and give Cardonne aid in apprehending his prisoner. But he also owed Aramis the benefit of hearing his newfound brother’s side of the story. If Cardonne’s accusations proved true, Athos would hand the man over himself and deal with the fallout as best he could.

Athos stood and walked around the desk to the door. “Give a description of the man you seek to Brujon on your way out. If any of my men happen upon him, I will send word.” Perhaps if Cardonne believed he would cooperate as Marcheaux had, it would buy him enough time to find LaMonte and get the truth from him before deciding whether to turn him over or not.

He just hoped Aramis would understand if fate forced his hand.

 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Wren was quiet, but considering it was only late afternoon, Athos wasn’t surprised. Before the war, he had taken advantage of the solitude, purchasing a bottle of wine or two and sitting alone to contemplate the mess his life had become. After a time, Aramis and Porthos – and eventually d’Artagnan – had not allowed him to wallow alone and he’d slowly come to realize there was more to life than drink and self-recrimination.

Since their return to Paris, Athos had had little time to visit the place. He’d accompanied his friends a few times to share an early supper and a bottle but, as Captain, had been forced to curb his consumption and hence had not patronized the place as much. He glanced around the dim interior as he entered, realizing that some things truly did not change.

There were a few customers sprinkled about in varying degrees of sobriety, so it was not difficult to identify the man he’d hoped to find.

LaMonte leaned against the bar, cordially exchanging words with the barkeep. Both men looked up as Athos approached with welcoming smiles.

“Ah, Captain,” LaMonte waved a hand to the man behind the bar. “Leon here was just regaling me with some of your Musketeers’ more energetic exploits. I certainly hope my little brother was not involved in any of these brawls I’ve been hearing so much about.”

“If there was a brawl involving Musketeers, you can be quite assured Aramis was at the center of it,” Athos drawled.

LaMonte threw back his head, his laughter ringing through the quiet room. “I would expect nothing less.” He glanced behind the Captain, his brows rising in question. “I see you are alone?”

“I expect the others will meet us here as soon as they return from the palace.”

LaMonte nodded, picking up on the tinge of authority in Athos’ voice. “But you wished to speak to me first.”

“You’re quite perceptive.”

“I am an innkeeper,” he responded. “Reading people is part of my profession.” He motioned toward a table near the edge of the room. “Shall we?”

Athos retrieved the bottle and extra cup Leon had placed on the bar and followed LaMonte to the table. He sat, poured the wine into both cups and leaned back, placing his hat on the table beside him. 

“You don’t trust me.” LaMonte observed.

Athos tipped his head in agreement. “Reading people is also part of my profession.”

LaMonte chuckled and raised his cup. “I suppose it is.” He took a sip of the wine and leaned back, mirroring the Captain’s slouch. “Please. Ask your questions.”

“A man came to see me today,” Athos began, his eyes watching LaMont’s face intently. “He said he was from Evroux, representing the Comte d’Everoux himself.” LaMonte swallowed hard at the name but did not flinch. “I found it quite a coincidence that a soldier from that village would arrive so soon after an innkeeper from the same place.”

LaMonte stared back for a long moment before sighing and dropping his eyes to the table.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Athos asked, his voice even. “He claims you murdered the Comte.”

The tall man leaned forward, both hands grasping the cup before him. He shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t even know the Comte was dead, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”

LaMonte took a deep breath and ran a hand along the side of his head, reminiscent of a gesture Athos had seen Aramis perform in times of stress a thousand times.

“The Comte was a good man – aloof, not really a man of the people, but not a cruel man. He mostly left the people of the town alone. As long as we paid our taxes, he had little concern for us. But his son… now he’s a different story.” He took a gulp from the cup before continuing. “The Vicomte has a reputation for… taking what he wants. And he decided he wanted my friend’s fourteen-year-old daughter.

Athos crossed his arms but didn’t comment, unsurprised at the audacity of the powerful. 

“My friend, Lorent is a good man but far from rich. He tried to get an audience with d’Evroux, but was turned away. He was desperate to save Claudette, so we went to the estate under cover of darkness. One of the stable hands had told us the Vicomte had been keeping the girl locked up in the stables, and when we found her she was in such a state…” He shuddered, haunted by the memory. “My only thought was what if it had been one of my girls? What if they were next? Before we could make good our escape, someone sounded the alarm. D’Evroux’ men came after us. We hid Claudette and split up. I have no idea what happened to either of them.”

“The Comte’s man knew you by name.”

LaMonte sighed and seemed to melt into the chair. “Then Lorent must have been caught. I only pray they did not find Claudette as well.”

“And what of the Comte? Did you kill him?”

LaMonte shook his head, adamant. “No. We didn’t even go near the estate house, just the stables. If the Comte is truly dead, I suspect his son had something to do with it. As I said, he has a reputation for taking what he wants.”

“It would not be the first time an heir did not have the inclination to wait for natural succession,” Athos agreed.

They sat, silent, each man contemplating their next move. Finally LaMonte broke the tense silence.

“What now? Am I to be turned over to the Comte’s men?” He seemed resigned to his fate, his dark eyes reminding Athos of Aramis’ as he walked away from them all those years ago.

“No,” Athos shook his head. While it was a case of one man’s word against another’s, Athos found LaMonte’s version credible. “But you should know they are here and searching for you. We can protect you in Paris, but if you are found, there will be little we could do to stop them from returning you to Evroux for trial.”

“Trial? There would be no trial.” Erias huffed a laugh. “Turn me over and I will be dead long before I reach Evroux.”

“I don’t doubt it. Captain Cardonne seemed quite eager to see you hang for your crimes.”

“Cardonne is as much a monster as the Vicomte. He does his bidding like a trained dog.”

“Perhaps if you were returned with a Musketeer escort, the Vicomte would be more inclined to listen to reason.”

LaMonte’s eyes widened in surprise. “You would do that for me?”

“I would do it for Aramis.” Athos admitted. “But you must tell him the real reason you came to Paris.”

“I know,” LaMonte nodded, acquiescent. “But I want you to know I truly am who I claim to be. Aramis is my brother. I regret it took something like this to force my hand, to make me search him out, but if this is my fate, I’m glad I was able to meet him before I die. I can only hope he will find it in his heart to forgive me and be there for my girls in my stead.”

“Aramis has the biggest heart of any man I have ever known,” Athos assured him. “But it won’t come to that. If what you’ve told me is true, you have committed no crime. You will be there for your daughters.”

“Thank you, Captain. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

Athos reached for the bottle and refilled both cups. “Tell him,” he commanded. “If you care at all about him, you will trust him with the truth.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos sighed in relief as they passed through the arch, dropping from his mount and gladly handing off the reins to the recruit tending the stables. 

It had been a long day.

Just watching Aramis’ unabashed observation of the Dauphin had been tense and exhausting. He’d spent the entire time on edge, studying everyone around them, trying to deduce which ones – if any – had their eyes on the Musketeer who had been the center of Rochefort’s accusations. Though it had been four long years since they had managed to discredit the First Minister, he knew the rumors persisted and that despite the time and distance, none of them would ever be safe. There had been stares from a few of the courtiers who’d been around back then, some whispers, but none had outwardly made any signs of contempt or accusation. Most had simply gone about their business, ignoring the Musketeers as if they were no more than statuary adorning the gardens.

He seen nobody react to the blatant expression of longing on Aramis’ face. Perhaps it was only his fears making him overly cautious, but just because he hadn’t noticed any outright reactions didn’t mean Aramis’ or the Queen’s glances hadn’t been observed. It had seemed ages before the Dauphin had exhausted himself running through the hedges and been packed off by his governess for a much needed rest. Even the pouting protest he’d managed to put up had brought a grin of fondness to Aramis’ lips. Porthos had simply rolled his eyes and continued praying no one else could detect the hint of paternal pride that seemed so glaringly obvious to him.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t grasp how hard this was for his friend, he just didn’t understand how Aramis could not see the danger and curb his reactions. It was like he was taunting fate itself, either not knowing how transparent his emotions were or not caring how easy he was to read.

Of course it could just be that Porthos knew him better than most – or at least he used to. Aramis had never shied from expressing how he felt – despite the trail of broken hearts and angry husbands he’d left in his wake. But Porthos had hoped that four years in a monastery had tempered that characteristic, making him more subdued, more restrained where his emotions were concerned. He wasn’t sure whether he was more frustrated or relieved to find that time had not changed the man from the idealistic romantic he had always been known to be.

Aramis handed his reins to the recruit with a nod of thanks. He placed a hand on the young man’s arm as he glanced around the empty courtyard. “Is the Captain in his office?” he asked, eager to be on his way to meet with Erias. Now that the distraction of the Dauphin was past, the marksman was obviously looking forward to his encounter with the man claiming to be his long lost brother. Despite Porthos’ reservations about LaMont’s sudden appearance, he’d take it as the lesser of the two evils at the moment.

“He went out an hour or so ago,” the recruit informed him. “He expects you to meet up with him at the Wren when you returned from the palace.”

Aramis smiled his thanks before turning to Porthos, a look of confusion marring his handsome face. “That’s odd,” he admitted. “Why would Athos leave without us?”

“Perhaps he wanted to speak with LaMonte alone.” Porthos shrugged. If he harbored concerns as to the validity of the man’s story not to mention his sudden arrival in Paris, it wasn’t a stretch to assume Athos felt the same.

Aramis’ brow furrowed, his countenance a swirl of confusion and annoyance. “Why? Erias is my brother. Athos has no cause to question him without my presence or consent.”

“Athos is the Captain,” Porthos reminded him. “It’s his job to look out for his men. No doubt he’s just trying to protect you.” His tone was clipped, but after the frustration of the day, he was too tired to contain his irritation with his friend.

“I don’t need his protection,” Aramis bristled.

“You’ve made that quite obvious.”

Aramis’ eyes flashed momentarily, and Porthos sighed, chastising himself for allowing his aggravation to rule his tongue. He ran a hand down his face, suddenly unable to deal with the wearing discord still floating between them.

“I’m tired,” he mumbled. “I’m goin’ to get somethin’ to eat. I’ll find d’Artagnan and meet you later, huh?”

The anger in Aramis’ eyes quickly dissolved, replaced by sad acceptance. With a quick nod, he turned on his heel and strode back through the archway, disappearing into the darkening streets.

Porthos’ hung his head. He’d thought they were beginning to find their way again. Wasn’t it just a few days ago they’d worked together, amazing the crowd with Aramis’ uncanny marksmanship? It had felt like old times, like they had never been apart. Then being trapped in the demolished building, believing he and d’Artagnan would never live to see any of them ever again… it had been such a relief to find Aramis and the King alive and well even though they’d been under attack by Grimaud’s men. 

On their way back to the Louvre, Porthos had known something had transpired between Aramis and the King, but the marksman had been reluctant to speak of it, and Porthos’ own aches and pains had quickly demanded his attention. It had taken another day – and two bottles of wine – before Aramis had old him of Louis’ threats.

At first, all he’d wanted to do was spirit Aramis away in the dark of night to somewhere the King’s retribution could not touch him. Even though there was still a sense of estrangement between them, he didn’t want to see his friend come to harm. But the King had made the decision to leave Paris for the time being, giving them all a bit of room to breathe and decide what action – if any – they should take in the face of Louis new-found revelations. 

He’d promised he’d keep Aramis’ secret for now. If only he could convince Aramis that discretion was the better part of valor. 

“What was that all about?” d’Artagnan was either getting much more stealthy or Porthos had allowed himself to become more distracted by the day’s occurrences than he’d thought. “Where’s Aramis?”

“On his way to the Wren,” Porthos announced. “To meet up with that new brother of his, LaMonte.”

“And you’re still here, why?” d’Artagnan looked at him pointedly. The Gascon had a way of cutting through the nonsense, right to the heart of the matter.

“I didn’t think he’d want two of us interrogatin’ the man.”

“You’re with Athos? You don’t believe Erias is telling the truth?”

Porthos shrugged. “I do. I just don’t trust the fact he’s showing up now after all this time.” He glanced at the younger Musketeer, a tired look of resignation on his face. “I know. I’m an idiot. I suppose I shouldn’t push him away when all I want to do is protect ‘im, eh?”

D’Artagnan returned the smile, patting a hand on the larger man’s broad shoulder. “Sometimes with Aramis it’s hard to do one without the other.” He pushed against Porthos’ arm, forcing him toward the archway. “Come on, you look like you could use a drink.”

Porthos chuckled, nodding in acquiescence, and allowed his young friend to steer him out of the garrison.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The two men pressed their hats down as the Musketeers strode past their position near the garrison gate. They’d been almost ready to give up for the day, believing Cardonne a fool for thinking they could find their quarry by watching the Musketeers. Their leader had not been as convinced of the Musketeer Captain’s cooperation as he’d been with the Red Guard’s. He’d suspected the man had been merely placating him with little intention of assisting with their search, let alone allowing them to carrying out their orders within the city walls. It had been a long shot that LaMonte had even come this way, and an even more remote possibility that he’d allow himself to be known to the men who guarded the city, but Cardonne had been adamant the Musketeer Captain knew something and had ordered them to stay close. 

They hadn’t seen the Captain leave earlier, but they could hardly believe their luck when they’d heard the two Musketeers mention LaMonte’s name. And to hear that they believed him a brother to one of their own – Cardonne would be pleased with the information. They would probably be rewarded for their diligence.

“What’re the odds LaMonte’s teeling the truth?” The shorter of the two asked, his eyes following the two Musketeers as they moved down the street. 

His partner pushed off the wall, motioning for him to follow as they began to trail the soldiers discreetly.

“Whether it’s true or not is of no matter. They believe it, so they’ll protect him.” The man grunted a laugh. “Smart move, if you ask me.”

The Musketeers moved without alarm and the Comte’s men kept their distance, just close enough not to lose them in the city’s darkening streets.

“But brother or not, he’s still goin’ to pay. The Comte will see to it. Come on, we can’t lose them.”

Silently they followed the Musketeers to the tavern they spoke of. The taller made himself comfortable outside ordering the other to bring Cardonne back. Once they ascertained whether or not the man the Musketeers called Erias LaMonte was indeed the one they sought, the Captain would want him taken quickly. It would be more difficult than anticipated to take him right out from under the Musketeers’ noses, but considering the Comte’s golden appreciation sure to be bestowed upon them, they would most certainly find a way.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis had always believed he had siblings somewhere out there. It was too much to assume he was the only product of his mother’s many ‘suitors’. She had been a beautiful woman, kind and vivacious, the type of woman any man would want to be near. It was no surprise she had borne other children, though he had never known them or inquired of their existence. He’d been content with what he’d had; Pauline, Alexander, Collette, Tristain… children he had considered family even though he knew he was no more related to them than the men who’d come to see his mother and offer him sweets before disappearing into her rooms. It had never bothered him to not have a real brother or sister, his family at the brothel enough to keep him happy.

When he had left to live with his father, the man had seemed to enjoy teaching him about the workings of the distillery and Aramis – René – had relished the knowledge and basked in the attention. He’d realized years later that it must have been at his wife’s insistence he’d been enrolled at the seminary school. Perhaps Madame d’Herblay had suggested the school to separate him from his father’s plans for him, or perhaps it had been to wash the taint of the brothel from his soul. Perhaps it had been simply to force the discipline he’d been quite eager to avoid. Whatever the reason, Aramis had accepted the decision as he had all others and thrown himself into the experience. He’d absorbed as much knowledge about God and religion as he could while remaining true to who his mother had taught him to be. He hoped that by studying hard and becoming a good man he’d be able to make her proud.

His father had loved him as he was – he’d never doubted that. Despite the time it took for his wife to accept Aramis as part of their family, Arnault d’Herblay had never once treated him as anything other than his son. Even when he’d fought Isabelle’s brothers after they learned of her pregnancy, his father had stood behind him, encouraging him to make the right decision, giving advice but never condemnation.

He prayed Erias had had the same level of love and support his father had given him.

Thoughts of his brother made him pick up his pace, eager to learn more about his life. While he’d had many brothers within the Musketeers – Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan close enough to be considered family – he found himself excited to know his true brother; a man who not only remembered him from before he could recall anything, but who knew his mother perhaps better than he ever would. With a renewed determination, he pushed on toward the Wren, forcing himself to let go of the frustrations Porthos had brought to the surface and look forward to the evening and the revelations it would bring.

TBC


	4. Chpter 4

Chapter 4

Aramis slumped against the rough wood of the table, the familiar hum of the tavern washing over him, giving him a sense of comfort. The evening had gone better than expected, but he still felt frustrated and on edge. 

When he’d arrived, he’d been surprised to find Athos and Erias conversing amiably. Expecting to be interrupting an interrogation, his look of inquiry had been met with a raised eyebrow and a shrug, the Captain not deigning to expand on whatever had been discussed before his arrival. 

He’d been even more surprised when Porthos and d’Artagnan had joined them only moments after Aramis had settled into his chair with a fresh bottle of wine. A thin smile had accompanied Porthos’ greeting and they’d had a friendly – though stilted – evening of conversation. If Erias had noticed the friction between them, he’d refrained from mentioning it, content with asking about their adventures and regaling them with memories of his infant brother when prompted. Both Porthos and Athos had been subdued, but D’Artagnan had attempted to keep things cheerful and Aramis would be forever grateful to the younger man for his efforts. 

The other Musketeers had left some time ago, Porthos’ grunted goodbye the most he had said directly to Aramis throughout the evening. D’Artagnan had smiled, conciliatory, patting him on the shoulder in silent support. Athos, as Captain, felt compelled to caution him against staying too late, reminding him of duty in the morning. He’d noticed the silent exchange between Athos and Erias but since neither man showed any sign of anger or resentment, Aramis was willing to allow them their secrets, hoping that whatever agreement they had come to was enough to ease both their minds. 

If only it was enough to ease his own.

As he watched the barkeep idle about the room, retrieving cups and empty bottles from tables long empty, Aramis rubbed a hand across his eyes, stifling a yawn as the stress of the day took its toll. He knew he should retire to his own bed, but sleep had become a rare commodity, the discord between him and Porthos a constant presence in his dreams. 

He’d felt it today as well, the looks of censure not going unnoticed. He truly did understand his old friend’s concern, but he was at a loss to explain how just being near his son made the chance of discovery pale in comparison. It wasn’t that he was looking to court the King’s ire, but after listening to Louis’ threats at the crypt, he had come to the conclusion he would be unwelcome at the palace at some point, so why not take what little he could while he was still able? If it meant the King’s wrath, then so be it. The King knew; there was no more need to pretend. 

Despite his newfound realizations, his brothers still expected him to act as if the child meant nothing. He had no idea how to do that, and suspected, in his shoes, they would not be so inclined either – whether they could see to admit it or not. 

He wished he knew how to make things better between them. He still believed Porthos would come to terms and forgive him for secluding himself – if he lived that long – but it was becoming more and more difficult to deal with the fallout of his four-year absence, let alone the struggle to remain a mere observer in his son’s life.

“Why did you become a Musketeer?”

Startled from his thoughts, Aramis looked up, meeting Erias’ inquisitive eyes. In his melancholy, he’d almost forgotten the man had remained, quietly drinking beside him. Erias was studying him, his curiosity written on his face.

The marksman shrugged. “It was the only thing I was truly good at.”

Erias shook his head, one arm stretched out on the table, the other hooked over the top of the chair beside him. “I’ve heard enough tonight to know you could’ve been anything you chose to be.” He dipped his head toward the simple silver cross hanging from around Aramis’ neck. “It just seems strange for a man with your religious proclivities to choose soldiering as a profession. Apparently the life of a monk didn’t suit you?”

Aramis’ brows rose. He hadn’t expected his brother to know of his time in Duoai.

“Athos may have mentioned your stay at the monastery,” Erias confessed. He shrugged. “I asked how you fared in the fighting and he told me you had resigned your commission before they left for the front. Although he did make a point of mentioning that you were one of the finest soldiers he’d ever had the honor of serving with, not to mention the best marksman in France.”

Aramis chuckled, dropping his eyes to the cup in his hands. “Athos is a good friend.”

“And loyal. As is d’Artagnan.” Erias paused. “But Porthos…”

Aramis sighed. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, hoping to alleviate some of the ache that had been building since his return from the palace earlier that evening. “D’Artagnan and Athos seem to understand why I had to keep the vow I’d made, but Porthos…” He shook his head, remorse and frustration once again rising up inside. “Porthos has taken my absence as a personal affront, I’m afraid. He believes I abandoned them when they needed me the most.” He shrugged, weary. “Perhaps he’s right.” Though he still prayed his friend would come to terms with why they had parted, days like this one only accentuated how far they still had to go.

“A blind man could see the tension between the two of you,” Erias admitted. “But it is also apparent how fond he is of you. I hope for your sake that is stronger than his resentment.”

“As do I.”

“But back to my original question. Why a Musketeer?”

Aramis had no idea if it was the wine, the fatigue, or the need to just let down his guard for a while that loosened his tongue, but he found himself explaining about Isabelle and their lost child. He somehow wanted his brother to know him – the real him – and understand how he became the flawed, confused man he was today.

“When my search proved fruitless, I ended up in Paris, alone and penniless. I either had to find some means of support or return home a failure. I’d always been good at fighting.” He smiled, his gaze focused on memories long forgotten. “The priests at the seminary school had long despaired over what to do with me and my penchant for mischief.” He took a sip of wine, his eyes sharpening as he glanced at the older man. “So I joined the army. Minister Treville was my Lieutenant then, and when he was commissioned to form the Musketeer regiment, he brought me along. The garrison has been my home ever since.”

“Until you decided to become a monk.”

It was more of a question than a statement, but Aramis was not ready to share the facts behind his decision. Not now. Not ever.

“That, mon frere, is a much longer story than we have time for tonight.”

Erias poured the rest of the wine into their cups, settling the empty bottle back onto the table with a soft thud. “One I hope to someday hear.”

Unlikely, Aramis mused. 

He abruptly changed the subject. “Now that you know so much about me, what about you? How did the path of a innkeeper from Evroux lead to Paris?”

Erias licked his lips, leaning forward onto the table. He stared into his cup as if contemplating how to answer the question. Finally, he smiled and glanced up at Aramis. “There were many reasons,” he shrugged. “I thought it time to find you. If I put it off again, I probably would never have tried.”

Aramis nodded, returning the smile with a contented one of his own. “I’m glad you did.”

“As am I.” 

“And the others?” At his brother’s look of confusion, he clarified. “The other reasons? You said there were many.”

Erias nodded, hesitant. He opened his mouth to respond but closed it immediately, the look of contemplation returning to his countenance. He shrugged, his mouth curling in a sad smile. The tavern was now completely empty, the barkeep leaning against the bar, nearly asleep on his feet. “It looks as if we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

Aramis chuckled, accepting the statement for the diversion it was. “It isn’t the first time, and I doubt it will be the last.” He drained the last of his wine and pushed the cup to the center of the table.

“You look as if you could use a week’s worth of sleep,” the older man observed. “Perhaps we should pick this up tomorrow? I have much to tell you, but I believe we should have clearer heads for such a conversation.”

“You make it sound quite serious,” Aramis frowned.

Before Erias could respond, the door to the tavern burst open and three men entered. They were all well dressed and heavily armed, swords, pistols and daggers strapped to their belts.

Aramis was instantly on alert, the earlier melancholy from the lack of sleep and indulgence in wine completely eclipsed by the prospective threat and potential for action.

“I’m sorry, Messieurs, but I’m afraid I am about to close,” the tavern keeper rounded the bar, holding up a hand cordially toward the new arrivals. “Perhaps you can return tomorrow --”

The men ignored him, one roughly shoving him back as they moved further into the room.

Aramis could feel Erias tense beside him and calmly laid a hand on his brother’s arm. He leaned forward casually, his smile cordial.

“I believe the man said the tavern is closed.”

“Yet you are still here,” the leader, a man with shoulder length blond hair waved a hand between them. He eyed the Musketeer before shifting his gaze to Erias.

Aramis moved to stand, leaning closer to his brother, his voice low, hushed. “There is a door directly behind us.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed the chair back, the legs screeching against the wooden floor. As he came to his full height, the interloper redirected his attention on the Musketeer. “We were just about to leave.” Aramis kept his voice light, his smile genial. “Perhaps we could walk you out?”

The blond man returned the smile with a hint of malice. “I don’t think so, Musketeer. I am here to take this man back to Evroux.”

Aramis glanced toward his brother, his expression turning conciliatory. “It doesn’t appear he wishes to go with you. Why don’t you meet us at the garrison in the morning and we will discuss this like gentlemen?”

The blond’s smile fell away and his hand moved to the sword at his side. “I think not. Step aside.”

The two men flanking him took a few steps to either side, spreading out around the table. Like their leader, they rested their hands on the pommels of their swords, the intended threat obvious. 

Aramis sighed and shook his head. “I suppose there is no way to avoid this?”

The man’s smile returned, misreading Aramis’ gesture as a sign of capitulation. “I’m sure you would agree it is in the best interest of everyone involved.”

The Musketeer nodded once then exploded into movement. Grasping the edge of the table in both hands, he yanked it up, toppling it over toward the startled intruders. With a fluid moment born of practice, he drew his rapier with one hand and grabbed the front of Erias’ doublet with the other, wrenching the older man from the chair and shoving him toward the back of the tavern. 

“Go!” he ordered. “Get Athos!”

Without waiting to see if his brusque order was followed, Aramis lifted a foot and pushed against the upturned table, riding it down to the ground as it continued its descent. As the tabletop hit the floor, Aramis turned, now in the midst of the intruders, quickly parrying a rushed thrust from the man on his right. One kick at an upturned table leg severed it from the base. He grabbed the leg and twirled, slashing out with his arm, splintering the wood into the man’s head. He went down like a rock.

Hoping his brother had made it out, his focus shifted to see two more men enter the tavern, no doubt alerted by the crash of the overturned table. They stopped just inside the door and Aramis was thrilled to see Leon, the tavern keep, rounding the bar, a heavy wooden club in hand.

Sensing someone behind him, he quickly turned, ducking under the hasty swipe of a sword. Reaching up he grabbed hold of the arm attached to it and pulled hard, forcing his opponent off his feet and tumbling over the other man he had just knocked to the ground.

Though Leon had good intentions, he was no match for the trained soldiers they found themselves facing. One of them quickly disarmed the barkeep, batting at him with the pommel of his sword, sending him to his knees, blood gushing from his nose. As the other moved forward, Aramis turned to the blond man, barely parrying the thrust of his sword. 

With Leon down and Erias – hopefully – on his way to the garrison, Aramis found himself alone facing the remaining three men. Normally, it would be no more than a brusque workout, but these men were obviously well trained and he knew the wine and fatigue that had begun to set in would quickly be his undoing.

Why they had come for his brother was a question he would address as soon as possible but for now he forced himself to focus on the threat before him. He only had to hold them off until Athos and the others could get here, but since he had no idea if Erias could find his way back to the garrison in the dark, he knew he needed to dispatch them quickly before he was overwhelmed.

One of the men was working his way around behind as the blond and the other continued to strike from the front. Another thrust came close, causing him to shift to the side, his foot catching on an overturned chair. He stumbled back a step, catching his balance, too late realizing his mistake. The shift had brought him closer to the third man who had retrieved an empty bottle from the floor. Blondie and his friend attacked, forcing Aramis to respond, and before he could move, he felt a blinding pain on the back of his head and the familiar walls of the tavern faded to black.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Erias stumbled back, regaining his footing as he hit the back wall of the tavern. He turned to see Aramis ride the table to the ground like a raft on a wave, his sword flashing as he instinctively blocked a slash from one of the Comte’s men.

Erias knew that was who they were. He recognized Cardonne from the few times the man had come into his tavern, acting like the Lord of the land himself. The Musketeer Captain had warned him, but neither of them had thought he would be found so easily. How they had discovered his whereabouts in a city this large was a mystery but found him they had, and now Aramis would pay the price. 

He wanted to help, but Aramis’ words rang in his ears.

“Go! Get Athos!”

Two more men rushed in from the open front door and joined the fight. Erias watched as the barkeep waded into the fray, armed with a solid looking club. If he was taken, Cardonne and his men would make sure neither Aramis nor Leon remained alive. He could not be responsible for the death of two good men – especially now that his brother was a real man instead of a ghost of memory.

Realizing they would only be able to hold off the attackers for so long, Erias turned and found himself directly in front of a narrow door hidden in the shadows of the wall. One good yank on the handle opened it to a dark alley and Erias stepped out, the cool night air tingling against his skin. He turned back, watching in awe as his little brother parried and slashed, dropping two of his opponents onto the floor before fixing his attention on Cardonne. He knew Cardonne was a gifted swordsman, but from what he had seen and heard, Aramis was one of the best. He prayed the accolades were more than simple words.

With a final look back, he dashed out into the night, sprinting from the alley toward the garrison.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Out of breath, Erias stumbled toward the archway, almost falling into the guard posted at the gate.

“Need…. Athos….” He managed between gasps, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees to keep himself upright. “Trouble… Aramis…”

The young recruit quickly called behind him and the guard who had met him when he had first tried to gain entrance to the garrison appeared. Brujon instantly recognized him, motioning for the recruit to allow him to pass. Once inside the gate, the young man made haste to the central staircase, rushing up and pounding against the Captain’s door.

A disheveled Athos appeared only moments later. A hurried conversation between the two had Athos dashing back into the room, returning instantly with his weapons belt and doublet in his hands. As he stepped out onto the landing, Brujon moved further down the walkway, pounding on another door while the Captain swiftly made his way down the stairs.

By the time the Captain stood before Erias, his breath came easier, though his chest still burned from the effort.

“Aramis?”

Erias swallowed, shrinking back from the cold anger in the Musketeer’s eyes.

“Cardonne and his men,” he explained. “I don’t know how, but they must’ve been waiting outside the tavern. After the rest of you left, they came in and ordered Aramis to let them to take me.”

Athos glanced at the empty gate behind him. “I take it Aramis refused.”

Erias nodded. “Cardonne didn’t like that much. Aramis tried to talk his way out but…”

“Cardonne is not the type of man to take no for an answer,” Athos finished for him.

Porthos and d’Artagnan rushed over to join them. The Musketeers were fully clothed, buckling their weapons belts around their waists. They looked to Athos expectantly.

“Brujon said Aramis was in trouble?” d’Artagnan inquired.

Athos glanced at Erias who nodded, giving the Captain permission to tell the others about why Cardonne and his men were in Paris.

“It appears our new acquaintance has angered a certain Comte back in Evroux. They are here to take him back so that the Comte can deliver punishment.”

“What did you do?”

If Erias thought Athos’ anger was cold, Porthos’ hostility was downright frigid.

“Nothing any of us would not have done had we been in his place,” Athos assured the bigger man before Erias could stammer out an answer. “But that is not what is important now. Apparently, the Comte’s men tracked LaMonte to the Wren.”

“And you left Aramis there to fight alone?”

Erias stepped back in the face of d’Artagnan’s ire. The younger Musketeer, as it turned out, was just as intimidating as the others.

“He told me to run,” he insisted. The excuse was thin even to himself, but they could debate blame and responsibility later. Right now Aramis needed their help. “He told me to get you.”

“Aramis can take care of himself,” Athos placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s chest as the younger man took a step forward. “And LaMonte is right. Aramis’ first priority would’ve been making sure his brother was safe. Sending him to the garrison was the best strategy.”

“Then what are we waitin’ for?” Porthos grunted as he pushed past them and headed for the archway. “Let’s go an’ get ‘im.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Light spilled from the open doorway as the Musketeers approached the Wren. Athos waived for Erias to remain hidden in the shadows across the street as he led the others silently to the tavern, swords drawn. Pushing inside, they were met with the remnants of chaos.

There were upturned tables and chairs as well as shattered glass littered across the floor. Dark purple wine stained the boards, and in a spot near where they had all been sitting hours ago, a brighter red liquid pooled in the scattered straw. A few paces beyond the blood, a familiar hat lay crushed, the bright peacock feather broken midway down the stem.

A groan to their right had all three turning to meet the threat.

Leon, the barkeep, lay sprawled against the bar, half sitting, half leaning on the filthy floor. His face was covered in blood, his eyes slits as he worked to hold his too-heavy head up against the rough wood behind him. D’Artagnan kneeled beside him and tilted his head gently, grimacing at the dark bruising under his eyes and blood still trickling from his nose.

“Leon?” the Gascon called softly. He patted the man’s cheek gently. “It’s d’Artagnan. Can you hear me? What happened here?”

‘D’Artn’,” the man mumbled in response. He blinked a couple of times and attempted to focus on the Musketeer. “’rmis…”

D’Artagnan shifted as Athos kneeled beside him and placed a hand on the wounded man’s leg. “Yes, Leon. Aramis. What happened to Aramis?”

The barkeep managed to crack his eyes open and look around, groaning again when he noted the condition of the room. 

“There were four – no, five – they wanted…” His eyes drifted to the left, widening as his gaze fixed on Erias who had quietly entered through the still open door. “Him…” he lifted a shaky hand and pointed accusingly. “They wanted him. Aramis wouldn’t let ‘em take him.”

When they had returned to the city after their years away, none of them had dared hope to find the Wren a place they would still consider home, but Leon had welcomed them back with open arms, making sure they knew they had been missed. As he’d told them the first night as they’d gratefully drank the wine he insisted was on the house, the Red Guard had changed things for the worse. Knowing the Musketeers had returned would make most of the merchants and workers feel a bit more secure, the sweet smell of hope rising from the stench of corruption that had taken over Paris.

Unfortunately, it appeared their presence was not exactly in the man’s best interest.

“Do you think they took Aramis?” Erias asked, his eyes roaming the destruction of the tavern.

Porthos skulked across the room and crouched down, retrieving the crumpled hat. He held it in his hands, brushing the broken feather reverently. “Aramis wouldn’t have left this behind if he could’ve helped it.” He chuckled, the sound more grim than joyous. “He loves this damn thing.”

Athos stood, turning to face Erias. “Did you tell him?”

Porthos pushed himself up and returned to the others, standing just behind Athos shoulder. “Tell ‘im what?”

“Why he was in Paris.”

The big man frowned, his narrowed eyes watching LaMont. “I thought you said you wanted to find your long lost brother?” 

His tone was accusing and Erias flinched. “It was… I mean, I… it was only part of the reason.”

Porthos started forward but the Captain’s hand on his chest stayed his movement.

“Did you tell him?” Athos repeated the question.

Erias had the grace to look ashamed. He shook his head, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I couldn’t. I tried but,” he shrugged. “We were going to discuss it tomorrow morning. When our minds weren’t so muddled with drink.” He looked up, throwing a heated glance to the big Musketeer who still stood behind the Captain. “ Besides, I didn’t feel it right to burden him with my troubles considering he was shouldering enough of his own.”

Porthos growled at the insinuation, but d’Artagnan pulled him away, placing himself between the big man and the innkeeper.

“I doubt Aramis would’ve acted any differently having known why they were here,” the Gascon pointed out. 

Porthos reluctantly grunted in agreement.

“Do you think they know Aramis is your brother?” Athos inquired.

Erias shrugged. “I don’t see how. Nobody knows our connection.”

The Captain nodded and glanced around, his eyes finally coming to rest on Leon. The barkeep still sat, propped up against the side of the bar, a rag pressed to his bleeding nose. “Then there is little more we can do for tonight. Let us get Leon somewhere where he can be attended to and return to the garrison.”

“We can’t just leave Aramis out there,” Porthos protested. “We have to do somethin’.”

“What?” Athos asked calmly. “We have no idea where they would take him. It is quite late and there is no one to question other than Leon and I believe he has told us all he knows.” He held up a hand to quiet any further argument. “Aramis is not Cardonne’s objective and they cannot use a dead man as barter. We can assume they will use Aramis to trade for what they want.”

D’Artagnan snorted a laugh. “And knowing Aramis, he’ll make them quite eager to make that trade.”

“Wait,” Erias interrupted. “You’re really not going after them?”

Surprisingly, it was Porthos who answered. “Aramis would want us to make sure you were safe.” His lips curled into a fond grin. “And d’Artagnan’s right. Aramis is more than capable of annoying anyone who has the misfortune to hold him against his will.”

Athos huffed in agreement. “Cardonne has no idea what he’s let himself in for.”

 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The first thing Aramis noted as he regained consciousness was that he was no longer in the familiar comfort of the tavern. The ground felt cold and hard, the chill in the surrounding air leaving his skin prickling. The sour odor of waste that accompanied his intake of breath was almost enough to send him right back into oblivion, and it took what little mental fortitude he could muster to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

As his senses adjusted, he calculated the various aches and pains beginning to make themselves known. His head pounded relentlessly, making it difficult to form a coherent thought, and his shoulders and butt ached, stiff from the position he’d been sitting in for who knows how long. He could feel a worn wooden beam at his back, his arms pulled tight around it. Lifting his head was a trial in itself, his brain sloshing against his skull as he settled back against the rough wood behind him.

Cracking his eyes open, he was met with darkness. The last thing he remembered was fighting the men who had come for Erias at the Wren, but he had no idea how much time had passed. From the stiffness in his body, he assumed he’d been here for at least a few hours, but could not discern whether the darkness was due to his current accommodations or if night still blanketed the city.

With a groan he shifted, pushing himself up further to take some of the strain off his neck and back. He instinctively twisted his wrists, trying to work them free. His attempts to loosen the ropes only managed to inflict a burning pain and he quickly aborted the effort. He swallowed roughly, licking his dry lips, wishing absently for a sip of wine to ease his parched throat.

Forcing his lids wider, he squinted through the dim light, his eyes landing on the cracked wall opposite him. He was in a room, barely the width of a fully-grown man, probably a washhouse or storeroom. The thick beam he was bound to sat in the center of the room, his outstretched feet almost touching the weathered wood of the far wall. 

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision he could see small cracks in the wood. No light penetrated. It was still night. Knowing he hadn’t been out for too long made things a bit more bearable. He’d hoped Erias would make it to the garrison and return with reinforcements before the soldiers were able to overpower him, but it would seem that was not the case. He distinctly remembered the blond man stating they’d come for his brother, but he hadn’t taken the time to ask why. No matter what Erias may have done, it was obvious these men intended him harm, and Aramis would not allow that under any circumstance. He fancied himself a good judge of character and despite his bias toward his own flesh and blood, he’d sensed a malevolence in the soldiers that he did not see in his brother.

Approaching footsteps outside the room broke his train of thought and he managed to plaster a defiant smile on his face as the door to the small space creaked open.

“I see you’re awake, Musketeer,” the blond man greeted as he stepped through the threshold. “Perhaps you are more willing to cooperate now.”

“Does knocking a man unconscious and tying him to a post normally garner good will where you come from?” Aramis asked flippantly.

Blondie laughed. “It usually does the trick.”

“Remind me to avoid visiting there.”

“Tell us where we can find Erias LaMonte and you need never step foot near Everoux.”

Aramis felt a tinge of relief knowing they had not managed to capture his brother as well. “I assume by now he is safely ensconced at the garrison under the protection of the Musketeers.” Aramis grinned, insolent. “Far out of your reach.”

“If that is true, I need only send my men to fetch him. I have already met with your Captain; Athos is it? He has assured me of his assistance in this matter.”

Aramis knew Athos would never hand Erias over and forced himself not to react to the man’s suggestion.

“Athos would never turn anyone over to the likes of you,” he spat. “Not without a direct order from the King.”

“Then perhaps I will petition the King,” Blondie shrugged. “I’m sure the word of a Comte would carry more weight than that of a Musketeer. Especially one who is protecting a thief and murderer.” The man pulled his hands behind his back and stepped fully into the tiny room. He walked around the post to stand at Aramis’ back and the Musketeer twisted, straining to keep him within sight. “I must admit, though, I am surprised someone as mundane as LaMonte would have a Musketeer for a brother. Apparently the King will take anyone these days.”

Aramis seethed at the dispersion cast toward the regiment – and his brother – but did not rise to the bait. “The Musketeers remain the most honorable of Louis’ forces. It’s a shame that distinction is not echoed in lesser regiments.”

He gasped at the flash of pain as Blondie grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked, his already pounding head exploding as it slammed into the unforgiving post. “Be careful, Musketeer. You are not our prize and I have no problem using you to get what I want.”

“Kill me and they will hunt you down,” Aramis managed through gritted teeth.

“I’m not going to kill you.” Blondie’s breath was hot against his cheek. “But you will help me send your friends a message.” He shoved Aramis’ head forward and stood, backing through the door. He nodded to someone just out of the Musketeer’s line of sight. “Make sure the message is loud and clear,” he instructed to whomever remained outside. He turned back to Aramis, his smile cold. “I wouldn’t want his Captain to misinterpret our meaning.”

Aramis swallowed as Blondie stepped away and another of the men he remembered from the Wren – the one he’d hit with the table leg if the large bruise on the side of his face was any indication – filled the threshold. The man smiled and raised his hand, slapping a suspiciously recognizable piece of splintered wood against his palm.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

A pounding on Athos’ door brought the Captain to full wakefulness. He could tell from the way the sun slanted through the window that it was just after dawn. Worry for his friend had kept him awake most of the night, dropping off at his desk what felt like only moments before. He rubbed a hand down his face, his eyes surveying the other men crowded into his quarters.

Erias sat on the bed, his back against the wall. His eyes were open but distant, no doubt contemplating the havoc he had brought down on his younger brother’s shoulders. Both d’Artagnan and Porthos had deigned to stay close. The young Gascon lay sprawled sideways across Athos’ desk, head pillowed by an arm Athos was certain would prickle with pins and needles from its position throughout the night. Porthos sat in one of the rickety chairs normally situated across the desk. He’d pushed it to the far wall near the door, leaning back, one foot hooked in the rung as the other kept purchase with the floor. The chair dropped with a thud the moment the knock sounded against the wood of the door.

“Come,” Athos bellowed. He cleared his throat as the door swung open to reveal Brujon holding a wrapped parcel in his hands.

“This was left for you, Captain.” 

Porthos snatched the parcel from the started cadet’s hands as soon as he stepped into the room.

“Thank you Brujon. Who delivered it?” Athos trained his eyes on the parcel as Porthos gently laid it on the cluttered desk.

Brujon shook his head. “The man was cloaked, sir. He tossed it to the guard on duty and rode off. Deluca thought it best to bring it to your attention rather than pursue.”

Athos nodded. “Thank you.”

The cadet returned the nod and slipped back through the door as Porthos stepped back, hands on hips, studying the package as if it held the answers to all the world’s problems.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked from Athos’ right. The young Musketeer had pushed himself erect in his chair and was also eyeing the wrapped package with trepidation.

With an uneasy glance at Porthos, Athos grasped the dagger lying on the desk and forcefully cut through the cord holding the wrappings closed. As the material fell away, his heart skipped a beat.

Lying before them was an achingly familiar pauldron. The worn leather was streaked with blood, sticky and dark where it soaked into the etched fleur-di-lis. 

Porthos reached for the pauldron as Athos slowly opened the small piece of parchment crumpled atop it.

“We hold your Musketeer,” he read, his voice flat. “We will exchange him for the murderer and thief, LaMont. Leave word with the innkeeper at the Wren. Do not delay. Your man will not last long.” He folded the note and glanced around at the somber faces circling the desk.

Erias had joined them and stood directly behind d’Artagnan’s chair. As Athos tossed the note onto the desk, LaMonte made a move toward the door but was thwarted by Porthos’ grip on his arm.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” the big man growled. 

Erias tried to shake off the hold, but the Musketeer held firm. “I should never have come here. When I’m gone they will have no reason to hold Aramis.”

Porthos yanked him back and tossed him down into the chair beside the door. “You’re not going’ anywhere.” He snatched the pauldron from the desk and held the bloodied piece of leather directly in front of LaMonte’s face. “You see this? They cut this off ‘im.” He shook the pauldron angrily, the severed straps swinging from the bindings. “This is your brother’s blood. The brother who took on five men to save your worthless hide.”

“Porthos.” Athos stepped around the desk and laid a hand on the big man’s arm, only to have it shrugged off as Porthos leaned closer to Erias. 

“Aramis didn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself for you, and you’re goin’ to turn away?”

Erias pressed back into the wall but turned his face up, giving Porthos a defiant scowl. “I’m not a fighter, I’ll admit. I don’t want to see him harmed. Perhaps if I leave they will follow.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “If you leave, they’ll kill ‘im! This is how you repay him for welcoming you with no questions asked?”

“That’s rich coming from a man who continues to hold Aramis’ vow to God against him.” Erias stood, forcing the Musketeer to take a surprised step back. “You haven’t said a civil word to him since I arrived. All because he chose a different path than the one you wanted him to. Is that how you repay him for years of friendship?”

Porthos looked like he was going to hit the man for a moment before dropping his shoulders and clutching the pauldron in his fists.

“You’re right,” the big man admitted. “I’m angry. I had to learn to live without my best friend, the man I always trusted to have my back and it made me resent the God he’d chosen over us.” He turned away, avoiding the eyes riveted on him. “Aramis’ absence made me feel cut open in a way I’d never felt before and I hated it.” Finally he looked up, catching d’Artagnan’s then Athos’ gaze. “I don’t mean –“

Athos waved the explanation away, favoring his friend with a sad, knowing grin. “We know.” He glanced toward d’Artagnan before again focusing on Porthos. “We both felt the same. Some holes cannot be so readily filled.”

Porthos nodded in agreement. He turned back to Erias. “Whatever is going on between us, we’ll work it out in time. I don’t doubt that. But he needs us to have his back now. He needs you to have his back.”

“Those are pretty words,” Erias scoffed, unconvinced. 

Porthos held up a hand. “I admit I’ve been struggling to find a way to trust Aramis again, to believe he’s really and truly here to stay. But I would never turn my back on him when he needs me. I would lay down my life for him without hesitation as I know he would do for me.” He stood to his full height and returned Erias scowl. “You, as his blood brother, shouldn’t hesitate to do the same.”

Erias deflated, Porthos’ challenge warring with the fear Cardonne and his men elicited. “But I’m not a Musketeer. I’m just an innkeeper who got in over his head. What could I possibly do besides give myself up and face the Comte’s injustice? I don’t want to die for something I didn’t do.”

Athos moved closer and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We won’t let that happen,” he assured the innkeeper. He chuckled as he glanced at the other two Musketeers. “Aramis would never forgive us if we allowed anything to happen to you.”

Porthos held up the pauldron, his face a mask of furious intent. “Forgiveness is something this compte is goin’ to be askin’ for when we get through with his men.”

Erias took a moment to study each of the three men his brother held in such high regard. Finally seeing what he needed in their determined stances, he took a deep breath and nodded. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The note told them to leave word with Leon at the Wren, so after deciding on how to proceed, Athos and Porthos returned to the tavern, finding the barkeep nervously sweeping up the previous night’s debris from the floor. Both of his eyes were bruised and swollen, his nose a large, painful looking lump between them. 

“I already told those other soldiers I want no part in this,” he informed them as they stepped foot inside the tavern. “Whatever this is it’s between you.”

Athos sighed and stepped over a splintered piece of wood that had no doubt been a chair in its previous life. He approached the barkeep and placed a hand on the broom, effectively stopping the man from continuing his work.

“When we returned to Paris, did you not state that it was better to have us here to keep the Red Guard from having their way with the merchants in this district?”

Leon turned to face him, his shoulders rigid. “I did. But –“

“But nothing,” Porthos interrupted. “Our presence keeps you safe. You said that. Now one of our own has been taken and we need you to help us get him back.” He stood to his full height, glaring down at the smaller man. “Aramis has helped you out many times.”

Athos stepped closer, shouldering Porthos’ intimidating bulk back a step. “We’re not asking you to do anything other than deliver a message, Leon. Tell them we are willing to give them what they want. As long as Aramis is not harmed.”

Leon looked from one to the other, his gaze finally settling on Athos with a reluctant nod. “Fine. I will do what you ask.”

The Captain echoed Porthos’ audible sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“One of ‘em was here earlier,” Leon informed them. “They would know when you showed.”

“Cardonne has a man watching the tavern,” Athos noted, unsurprised. “We will employ the same tactic. One of us will wait outside, hidden from view. When Cardonne’s man returns to give you further instructions, alert us and we will track him back to where they are keeping Aramis.”

“What if they see you?” Leon asked nervously. “What if they know you’re following them?”

Porthos’ laugh was cold enough to freeze fire. “They won’t. Tracking a man through the streets of Paris without him knowing is one of the things I’m very good at.”

“Once we know where they are keeping our friend, we will make sure Cardonne and his men never darken your doorstep again,” Athos promised. “With any luck, this will all be over before anyone else gets hurt.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It was nearly midday before one of Cardonne’s men approached the tavern. Porthos had made himself comfortable perched atop a barrel in the alley straight across the narrow street. The alley was between a pastry shop and a dressmaker’s store providing ample distractions while he waited. The women entering the dressmaker’s shop had eyed him warily until he’d shifted to expose his pauldron. The tantalizing aroma from the bakery had only managed to make him hungry.

He was about to give in to his stomach’s rumbling and purchase some bread or pastries when a short man arrived at the door of the Wren. He ducked back into the shadows as the man surveyed the street before darting into the tavern, closing the door behind him. It was not unusual for patrons to begin visiting the tavern this early in the day. In the old days Athos had been known to remain planted in a chair for more than a night and day, and Porthos himself could be found some mornings playing cards and taking the coin of any Red Guard stupid enough to challenge him.

It wasn’t the hour of his arrival that convinced Porthos this was one of the men who had taken Aramis, nor was it the cautious manner with which he conducted himself. It was the way his hand never strayed from the grip of his sword and the daggers attached to the well-worn belt that told the Musketeer this was no ordinary patron. He swallowed his need to storm across the street and confront the man, knowing the best way to find Aramis was to stick to the plan and follow him back to where they were keeping his friend.

He clenched his hands into tight fists, eyes never leaving the doorway as he waited. Only a few moments later the man emerged, once again glancing up and down the street before taking off to the south. After he started down the street, Leon stepped into view and nodded his head, confirming Porthos’ suspicions that this was whom he’d been waiting for all morning.

Porthos returned the nod and quietly moved to the edge of the alley, his eyes scanning the street, quickly finding his target. 

Though the Comte’s soldier moved with purpose, he remained cautious, leading the Musketeer on a winding path through the streets of Paris. After almost half an hour of dashing in and out of alleys to remain inconspicuous, Porthos began to recognize his surroundings and smiled.

The man was leading him right to the Court of Miracles. 

How Cardonne’s men had been able to infiltrate the Court without being challenged was something he could wonder about later. For now, he was relieved they’d chosen a place Porthos was more than familiar with. If necessary he could call upon Flea to lend a hand, knowing his former lover would still come to his aid. After returning to Paris from the front he had taken it upon himself to visit her, make sure she still remained in the city, fighting for the people of the Court. The flux of refugees had added to the weight of her responsibilities, but she was still as determined and focused as always – and happy to see him even though they were no longer what they’d once been to one another.

Porthos ducked back behind a pile of empty crates as the man approached a small hovel at the end of a lane. The building was barely big enough for a man to stand let alone lay down. Back when he’d roamed these streets, the building had been used for storage of food and supplies though he was no longer sure the ramshackle structure was suitable for anything other than shelter for rats and stray dogs.

The man spoke to another who was positioned on a rickety stood just outside the door before turning and entering another building just to the side of the shack.

Porthos leaned back against the crates, forcing himself to remain calm.

So this was where they were keeping his friend. 

He poked his head out around the wood, taking in the scene. There was only the one guard, but he was certain Cardonne and his remaining men were just inside the nearby structure the man he’d been following had disappeared into. Despite his need to see Aramis and make sure he was all right, Porthos doubted he could make his way to the shack without being seen or heard. He had no idea how badly his friend was injured – the blood on the pauldron they’d received a less than encouraging sign of good health. If the guard raised an alarm he would be faced with five-to-one odds with no back-up and little chance to keep Aramis out of harm’s way.

It went against every instinct he possessed to leave Aramis in Cardonne’s hands, but he knew he had to stick to Athos’ plan. Now that they knew where Aramis was being kept, they would be able to confront the Comte’s men and hopefully rescue Aramis without anyone dying.

A vision of the bloodied leather uniform flashed through Porthos’ mind and the anger simmered anew in his belly. Maybe one or two of them could die, he amended. A fitting lesson to the others for messing with a Musketeer.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

His arrival back at the garrison was met with relief and determination. Once he’d relayed where he’d tracked the Comte’s man to, they considered their options.

“The shack they’re holding him in is nothing more than a stack of timber,” Porthos pointed out. “There’s a guard out front and the others are a shout away, but if I can get behind it without being seen, I can take it apart and sneak in while the lot of you are keeping Cardonne busy out front.”

Athos nodded sagely. “That may work. Are you sure you can gain access?”

“The building is old,” Porthos assured him. “Looks like a stiff wind could take it down. If he’s in there, I can get to him.”

“What instructions did they leave with Leon?” d’Artagnan asked.

“They want to meet somewhere else at dusk,” Porthos informed them. He’d stopped at the Wren on his way back, the barkeep eager to give him the message and send him on his way. 

“But we’re not going to wait that long, right?” The Gascon looked from Porthos to Athos, waiting while the two held an entire conversation without saying a word.

“No,” Athos stated after a few moments. “We will confront him at the shack. That way there will be no time for him to harm Aramis or create subterfuge.” He turned to Porthos. “Are you certain we can rely on Flea to keep her people out of things?”

The big Musketeer nodded. “I’ll send word. I’m not sure why they’re allowing Cardonne and his men free rein –“

“They probably paid for the privilege,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “This Comte seems to have deep pockets if his guards’ attire is any indication.”

Porthos shrugged in agreement before continuing. “I doubt Flea realized they were holding a Musketeer. I’m sure once that is made known, we can count on her and her people to let us handle it our own way.”

Porthos assurance was enough to convince the Captain. “Then send word,” he ordered. “We leave in one hour.”

The other two Musketeers hurried to do his bidding leaving Athos and Erias alone in the office.

“Will this work?” Erias asked, his arms wound tightly around his torso. “Are we going to be able to get Aramis back alive? What if they’ve already killed him?”

“They haven’t,” Athos assured him. “They need him to make the exchange. If they cannot present him, their plan has already failed.”

At Erias’ haunted expression, Athos moved forward, laying a reassuring hand on the man’s arm. Though his earlier reticence to involve himself in the negotiations still rankled, he was here now and willing to risk his own freedom to save his brother. Athos could ask nothing more. 

“Don’t worry. Aramis is one of the most resilient men I know. And if you believe any of us would allow these men to succeed in their objective, you haven’t been truly paying attention.”

Erias swallowed and gave him a tremulous smile. “I trust you,” he admitted. “I don’t know Aramis all that well, but I do know he has honor. And if he considers you brothers, so do you.”

Athos was relieved to hear the words. He prayed they could live up to the man’s expectations.

“We will get Aramis back. And the King will hear of Cardonne’s tactics. If you do have to face Comte d’Everoux, I promise it will be with Aramis and the Musketeers by your side.” 

mmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Flea was waiting for them as they approached the unofficial boundary of the Court of Miracles. The petite blonde was perched atop an overturned crate, her eyes stormy as they dismounted.

Porthos sighed and handed his reins to d’Artagnan, who wished him luck under his breath. He exchanged a look with Athos who merely shrugged before steeling himself and making his way toward the irate woman. Flea stood as he neared, crossing her arms over her chest and jutting a hip out defiantly.

“Thank you for sending word of your intentions,” she spat out sarcastically. “Though a more personal explanation would’ve been more appropriate.”

“I know,” Porthos supplicated. “I’m sorry, but there wasn’t time.” Aramis had been in the hands of Cardonne and his men far too long, there wasn’t a minute to waste on such courtesies.

Flea shifted, frowned, reacting to the seriousness of his countenance. 

“This is a haven for the people who have been persecuted,” she reminded him, her mouth in a tight line. “People who have nowhere else to go. I will not have Musketeers harassing them. We have enough trouble keeping the Red Guard away as it is. The last thing we need is you lot joining them.”

Porthos held up both hands, placating. “We’re not here to cause trouble,” he assured her. “These men we’re after, they’re dangerous.”

“And you think they’re hiding here? What have they done?”

“They took Aramis.”

Flea’s stance softened immediately, her expression melting into one of concern. “I didn’t know.” Though there was little love lost between the people of the Court and the Musketeers, Flea was one of the few who knew exactly what the four of them had done for the denizens of the Paris slum. 

Porthos nodded, accepting her unspoken apology. “It’s all right. We’re goin’ to get him back.”

Flea dropped her arms, her shoulders relaxing. “Why did they take him? Who are these men?”

“They represent a Comte from Everoux.” He waved a hand behind him where Athos and d’Artagnan stood with Erias LaMonte across the road. “They came after Aramis’ brother on some false charges intendin’ to take him back to pay for somethin’ he didn’t do. When Aramis interfered, they took him as leverage to try and force our hand.”

Flea glanced at the three men before returning her attention to Porthos. Her expression softened further. “You believe Aramis is still alive?” She was well aware of how much the marksman meant to her former lover, the concern in her eyes was more for Porthos than Aramis, but the effort warmed him all the same.

“They hurt ‘im,” he ground out. The image of the bloodied pauldron flashed behind his eyes, reigniting the fire in his belly. “We’ve no idea how badly, but we’re not about to let them harm him anymore.”

Flea released a long breath and balanced her hands on her hips. After a moment of consideration, she nodded. “I’ll have men at the ready if you need them.” She looked up at him, a sardonic grin tugging at her lips. “Just try not to leave too much of a mess. These people have seen enough bloodshed for a while.”

Porthos couldn’t help but return the grin. Flea would always have the best interest of her people at heart – even when circumstances were stacked against a peaceful solution. “We’ll do our best.”

If the war had never happened, they may have had a chance to rekindle the attraction that still burned between them. But four years is a long time to be away, and neither of them were the same anymore. With the refugees flooding into the city, Flea had more responsibility weighing her slim shoulders, and Porthos…. After four years of blood and mud and fear, he was no closer to knowing what he wanted than when he left the Court a lifetime ago. He watched her walk away before returning to the others.

“I take it she was not entirely pleased with our presence?” Athos remarked knowingly.

Porthos shrugged and moved to his mount to retrieve the rest of his weapons. “No, but she understands.” He glanced around the quiet street, his eyes darting from one shadow to the next. “She no doubt already has men watching us. She’s offered their assistance should the need arise, but they won’t interfere.”

Athos nodded once, satisfied, and turned to his own horse to continue his preparations.

Erias shifted away, tugging on d’Artagnan’s arm to pull the younger man aside. He glanced nervously at the others as he spoke in a low, hushed voice. “Who was that?”

“Flea,” d’Artagnan answered. He glanced at the now empty corner where the blonde woman had stood. “She’s an old friend of Porthos and considered the Queen here in the Court of Miracles.”

“He has interesting friends,” Erias noted.

“And loyal ones.”

“Do you believe we will be able to get Aramis out alive?”

D’Artagnan placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “I have no doubt. Don’t worry, Erias, Aramis is our brother as much as yours. We won’t let him down.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

With a silent signal, Porthos ducked into the shadows, quickly disappearing from sight. It had always been a source of amazement to Athos that such a big man could move so quietly, but he assumed growing up in the streets had made it a talent born of necessity rather than superfluous occasion. He waited a few moments to give his friend time to maneuver closer and take up position behind the shack before stepping out into the street just across from the cul de sac.

The guard posted at the door of the small building jumped to his feet as soon as the Musketeer Captain came into view.

“Tell Cardonne to show himself,” Athos ordered. “I am here to retrieve my Musketeer.”

It only took a moment for Cardonne to step out from the side door of the adjacent building. He made a quick motion to the guard who immediately disappeared into the shack.

“Ah, Captain,” Cardone smiled belligerently. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you were able to find us. Although I thought we had a deal.”

“I do not deal with the likes of you,” Athos responded, his tone commanding, imposing. “Show me Aramis.”

“I want Erias LaMonte,” Cardonne replied evenly. He placed his hand on the grip of his rapier as he made a show of glancing about. “I don’t see him. I thought the Musketeers always preached honor above all else.”

“There is no honor in your actions,” Athos responded. He turned slightly to the side and tilted his head. D’Artagnan stepped out from around the corner of the building directly across, his hand firmly about Erias’ arm, his pistol pointed at the man’s chest. “But as you can see, we have brought what you seek. Now where is Aramis?”

Cardonne smiled, pleased with how things were proceeding despite the Musketeers’ unexpected arrival. “Excellent, Captain.” He motioned for one of his men to secure their prisoner, but before the man could move, d’Artagnan shifted his pistol, taking aim on Cardonne.

“Not until we see Aramis,” the young Gascon called. “Alive and unharmed.”

Cardonne chuckled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that. Your friend was not as accommodating as expected and we had little choice but to explain to him the importance of cooperation.”

“Aramis has never been very good at doing what he is told.”

Cardonne shrugged at Athos assessment. “As we came to realize. I assure you he is alive, though it took a bit of… persuasion… to keep him under control.”

Athos glanced sideways at d’Artagnan and Erias, noting their twin looks of fury at Cardonne’s implication.

“Be that as it may, we will see Aramis before we go any further.”

Cardonne spread his hands before him, supplicant. “And here I was hoping we could work this out amicably, as gentlemen.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The sound of the familiar voice roused Aramis from the light doze he had fallen into. He wasn’t sure if the voice had been real or imagined, but the sudden appearance of one of the Comte’s men through the narrow door of the shack lent credence that it wasn’t a dream. The man pointed a pistol at him and pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes wide as Cardonne’s voice filtered through the cracked wood.

“Ah, Captain. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you were able to find us. Although I thought we had a deal.”

Aramis nearly fainted in relief as Athos’ voice rang out in response.

“I want Aramis.”

He relaxed further when Cardonne made it clear Erias was not in sight.

“There is no honor in your actions. But as you can see, we have brought what you seek. Now where is Aramis?”

He felt a twinge of fury toward the Captain for putting his brother in danger, but swallowed his irritation immediately, knowing Athos would never allow harm to come to an innocent.

“Aramis has never been very good at doing what he was told.”

The guard who had twisted to peer out between the cracks in the wood turned back to Aramis, a mocking laugh escaping his lips.

Aramis merely shrugged, unable to deny the accusation.

As the guard returned his gaze to the scene in the street out front, Aramis tilted his head, his ears picking up a quick tapping from behind. He grinned, recognizing the soft chuckle that followed the taps.

Turning his head back to the guard, he took a deep breath and pushed himself up against the post as far as he could.

“He’s right, you know.”

The guard shifted, glancing back at Aramis with a frown. He leveled the pistol at the Musketeer, placing his finger once again against his mouth, issuing silence.

Aramis smiled. “Obedience is not one of my stronger points.”

Before the man could move, Aramis lashed out with his feet, hooking the guard’s ankles and pulling him off balance. The splintering of wood from behind was accompanied by a grunt of pain as the guard toppled to the ground, his pistol flying from his hand. Aramis slid his butt forward and wrapped his legs around the man’s neck, gritting his teeth as he applied pressure. 

The guard managed to get a hand under the Musketeer’s leg, pressing back enough to keep his neck from snapping. With his strength waning, Aramis used every last ounce he could muster to keep the guard on the ground, but the long night had taken its toll. The man twisted, breaking the hold and shoved his legs aside, only to squeak in protest as a beefy hand grabbed him from behind and tossed him forcefully against the wall of the shack. The entire building shook with the collision and the guard dropped to the ground, stunned.

Gasping for breath, Aramis watched as Porthos stalked the short distance to the guard and grabbed him by the front of his doublet. He raised the man inches off the floor only to land a heavy blow to his face, rendering him unconscious immediately. The big Musketeer released his grip and stood back, allowing the guard to drop to the ground with a thud. Aramis couldn’t help but wince as the insensible man’s head bounced against the unforgiving dirt.

“I had everything under control,” he leaned back against the post, grinning up at his friend. Porthos shook his head, his eyes raking up and down the marksman’s battered countenance.

“Perhaps I should just leave the way I came if you’re goin’ to be so ungrateful?”

“No, no,” Aramis countered quickly. “Now that you’re here, I suppose it would be helpful if you could untie me?”

Porthos chuckled and knelt down, pulling a dagger and quickly severing the bindings.

Aramis groaned as he brought his arms around front, rubbing at his wrists.

Having lost track of what had been going on outside the shack, both men jumped as shots echoed from out front. Porthos grabbed hold of an arm and helped Aramis scramble to his feet, stepping back in surprise as the door before them opened.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

“And here I was hoping we could work this out amicably, as gentlemen.”

Athos scoffed at the man’s feigned indignation. “You, Sir, are no gentleman.”

D’Artagnan glanced toward Athos, unsure how long he planned to allow Cardonne’s taunts to continue in order to give Porthos time to get to Aramis. The tension between Cardonne and the Musketeer Captain was like a living thing, breathing in the air from the street and allowing nothing in return. He had no idea how long Athos would remain tolerant of the man’s arrogance, and he held himself ready to move at the slightest indication.

Cardonne shrugged, unmoved by the insult. “Yet we had an agreement. I expected more from a man of such… principle.”

“We had no agreement, Cardonne. You dictated terms. I am merely altering them.” Athos raised his head, looking down his nose at the Comte’s man as if he were nothing more than a speck of dirt on his shoe. “You should be grateful I have not already had you thrown into the Chatalet for such a blatant attack on my regiment, though the possibility of such an arrangement is still a distinct possibility.”

Cardonne bowed, a brow raised mockingly. “My gratitude, Captain. Despite the Musketeers’ formidable reputation, I doubt you and your young subordinate there would be enough to take down me and my men.” He looked d’Artagnan up and down before summarily dismissing him and redirecting his gaze to Athos. “Besides, I doubt your man – Aramis is it? – would enjoy paying the price we would extol for your error in judgment.”

“You may find our reputation well deserved,” d’Artagnan spat.

Cardonne smiled, huffing a laugh through his nose. “We shall see.” 

He whistled abruptly and his three men pulled pistols from their belts, taking aim on the Musketeers across the road. Athos ducked behind one of the horses while d’Artagnan tugged Erias down behind a water barrel near the entrance to the alleyway. As soon as three shots echoed, the young Gascon was up and moving, ordering Erias to remain hidden.

Aiming the loaded pistol in his own hand, d’Artagnan drew bead on the man furthest to the right, downing him as he pulled his rapier from its sheath. Cardonne’s remaining men advanced, swords readied, as the two Musketeers quickly closed the gap.

The soldiers were well trained but little match for the King’s own personal guard. Athos sidestepped his opponent’s lunge, kicking out a foot as the man overbalanced, knocking him down into the dirt. Using his toe to flick the man’s rapier away, he stepped on the outstretched hand with the heel of his boot and pressed his weight on the appendage. The man screamed as bones gave.

The other soldier came at d’Artagnan swinging but the young Gascon easily countered the move. Pressing the man’s blade to the ground, he raised his foot and stomped down on the blade, forcing it from its guard and snapping it in two. Twirling with blinding speed, he jabbed an elbow into the startled man’s face and he dropped to the ground, blood gushing from his shattered nose. D’Artagnan shoved him over onto his side, leaving him whimpering, his face cradled in both hands.

Noting that Athos had already dispatched the other man, d’Artagnan’s gaze found Cardonne’s startled eyes. Realizing they’d dispatched his men in the span of a few moments, Cardonne backed quickly toward the shack. He fumbled for the latch, yanked open the door and disappeared inside, only to stumble back out immediately, hands held at his shoulders.

D’Artagnan couldn’t help the smile that lit his face as the barrel of a pistol emerged from the doorway held firmly in a familiar grip. Aramis was bruised and bloodied, but his steps were steady and his eyes flared with anger. Porthos followed, pushing the last of Cardonne’s men ahead of him, tossing the man down into the dirt next to the others.

Nobody dared moved as Cardonne backed away from the irate marksman, his head shaking as he pleaded for someone – anyone – to intervene.

When Athos finally stepped forward, Aramis’ arm had begun to shake and d’Artagnan noted the determination it was taking for his wounded friend to keep the pistol’s aim true.

Without a word, Athos placed a hand on the marksman’s arm and gently pressed it down. It took Aramis a moment to oblige, but as his arm dropped he released his grip on the weapon, allowing Athos to take it from his lax hand. Without the pistol, he seemed to shrink into himself. His lids fluttered and his shoulders bowed as he stumbled back into Porthos’ waiting arms. The big Musketeer grasped him with both hands, shifting him until he stood leaning against his broad chest, the big body keeping him from falling. Aramis was a proud man and loath to appear weak, especially in front of Cardonne and his men. Porthos, like the rest of them, understood the need to remain strong and would not allow his friend’s captors to see him collapse.

A flurry of footsteps announced the arrival of more men, and the Musketeers tensed, ready to defend their wounded comrade if need be. D’Artagnan stepped in front of Aramis while Athos latched on to Cardonne’s arm, turning the soldier to face the newly arrived threat.

There were five of them, armed with clubs and knives. They stopped as they reached the middle of the street, scanning the area for any hidden adversaries.

“Flea’s,” Porthos grunted. The Musketeers relaxed as one of the men nodded in their direction, recognizing that the confrontation was well in hand. Without a word, they dispersed back into the shadows from which they came. 

“A little late,” d’Artagnan quipped. “But it’s nice to know they had out backs.”

“Flea did say they would hold back unless we needed them,” Porthos reminded him. 

“Her faith in us is appreciated.”

“Where’s Erias?”

D’Artagnan looked over his shoulder at Aramis weak inquiry. The horses remained tethered and the rain barrel still stood upright, but there was no sign of the innkeeper. He rushed back across the street, turning in a circle as he scanned the area. With a bewildered expression, he turned back to his friend and gave a reluctant shrug.

“He was there a moment ago,” d’Artagnan assured as he jogged back across the road. “I told him not to move. I swear he was safe.” He looked to Athos, but the Captain only shook his head in return.

“I’m sorry, ‘Mis.” Porthos’ grip tightened on the weary man’s arms.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Athos offered. “He did come to help us get you back safely.”

Aramis smiled tiredly and patted Porthos’ arm. “It’s all right.” His voice was soft, tinged with disappointment and a sad acceptance that made d’Artagnan’s chest ache in sympathy. “I can’t blame him for his fear. This has all been much for a simple innkeeper to bear.” He shrugged, a poignant grin teasing at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps all brothers are not created equally.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

After delivering Cardonne to the Bastille and informing Minister Treville of what had happened, the four Musketeers returned to the Wren where Leon welcomed them with a bottle of fine wine on the house. Treville had promised to inform the King of Cardonne’s crimes and had agreed to provide restitution for the damages done to the tavern. As soon as he’d drafted a missive summoning the Comte d’Everous to Paris, he would have the Musketeers deliver it and escort the nobleman back to face Louis’ wrath.

Aramis moved without his usual grace thanks to Cardonne’s harsh treatment. Sore and stiff, his ribs and stomach sported an array of colors beneath his doublet and the needlework needed to close the cut along his temple was stark against his pale skin. There were visible bruises on his face and wrists, which were obviously uncomfortable, but it was the damage they couldn’t see, the hurt deep within that made them cloister around their marksman, keeping him company despite his protestations.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Aramis sat hunched in his chair, nimble fingers playing with the handle of his cup, his gaze clouded in unease.

Porthos huffed at the declaration. “And I told you we’re all thirsty, so you might as well just shut up and drink this fine wine Leon so graciously offered.”

“If you’re so parched, why is the bottle still half-full?”

“Obviously because we’re optimists.” Athos responded dryly.

Aramis sputtered a laugh, wrapping a hand around his torso as he eyed the Captain. “As I’ve often suspected.” His gaze returned to the tabletop, his amusement melting to melancholy. “I just wish I had the chance to talk to him again. To say goodbye. With all that is happening here in Paris, who knows when the chance to seek him out will arise.” 

“Treville did say a missive would have to be delivered to d’Everoux,” Athos noted. “I suspect he will approve of a Musketeer delivering it.”

“If that’s even where he is,” the marksman sighed. “I have no way of knowing if he returned to Everoux or not.”

“Perhaps he’ll send word,” d’Artagnan offered. “Despite his original motives, he did seek you out, he did want to find you. I can’t believe Erias wants to forget about you anymore than you want to forget him.”

Aramis forced a smile. “I’ll have to pray you’re right.”

After finishing the bottle in comfortable silence, Athos excused himself to finish some much overdue paperwork while d’Artagnan insisted he needed to get back to his wife. Porthos ordered another bottle, content to sit in silence while his friend worked through his disappointment. 

“You’ll see him again,” Porthos finally broke the quiet. “He’s your blood, It’s not like he can just stop being your brother.”

Aramis’ eyes met Porthos’ for a moment before dropping to stare into his cup, a despondent frown on his lips. The marksman shrugged. “If I’ve learned anything from recent events, it’s that you can never count on anything remaining the same – not even family.”

Porthos was sure they weren’t talking about Erias anymore.

“Perhaps my mistake was returning with the hope that things could be like they were,” Aramis went on, his voice soft, his gaze turned inward. “Maybe it was better for everyone if I had remained in Douai. It seems my presence has made everyone’s lives more difficult.”

Porthos stiffened, the thought of Aramis gone for good forcing him to speak.

“It wasn’t all that easy without you, ya know.”

Aramis’ eyes flickered up and Porthos’ breath caught at the sadness reflected in the dark depths. “I have no idea how to make things right, Porthos. With you, with the Queen… I can’t help but think all of you would be better if I was not part of your lives.”

Porthos nodded, carefully shifting until his forearms rested on the table. “When we first left for the front, I kept looking to my side, expectin’ to see you there. Then I would get angry you weren’t and then… I would just miss you. Eventually, the anger lasted longer and the missin’ you part got buried somewhere. I knew you weren’t comin’ back.” He took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose as he recalled the loneliness that had enveloped him all those years ago. “I know Athos and d’Artagnan felt it, too, and that just made me angrier.”

“At me.”

“At you,” he admitted. “Or at your absence.”

“So you learned to live without me,” Aramis repeated the words Porthos had pronounced when they’d first found him at the monastery. It was surprising how much they still stung.

“We had to,” Porthos admitted. “It was either that or… or go a bit crazy.” He chuckled, still being careful not to meet his friend’s eyes. “And now… I guess I’m still afraid.” He raised his head and directed his gaze at the man across the table. “I’m afraid that if I get used to having you around again, you’ll leave and it’d be impossible to say goodbye again.”

“I didn’t want to leave.” Aramis leaned forward, mirroring Porthos’ posture. He held the bigger man’s gaze. “I know now that leaving was a mistake, but it was one I had to make. I had to know where I belonged, Porthos. I had to figure out which vow was most precious – the one I’d made to you, to the Musketeers or the one I’d made to God.”

“And?” Porthos prompted. “Have you?”

Aramis’ shoulders dropped and he tilted his head as he rubbed a hand across his beard. “I think so. I hope so.” He glanced up at the ceiling as if the answer to the question was written on the wood above. “Despite how hard it is to be near my son and his mother, to not be able to claim them as my own, being here, with you and Athos and d’Artagnan feels more right than any moment I spent in the monastery.”

“Can you handle it? Being this close to them?”

Aramis shrugged wearily. “I thought being far away would lessen the pain but it didn’t. At least if I’m here, I can protect them no matter how much it hurts to have to watch from afar. I’ll take the pain over the emptiness of not knowing any day.”

Porthos nodded. “Things can never go back to how they were.”

Aramis gazed dropped, his voice choked with disappointment. “I know. And I understand that you can no longer trust me –“

“And I don’t want them to be like before,” Porthos continued as if Aramis hadn’t spoken. “We’ve all changed – for better or worse. None of us are the men we were. I did learn to live without you, but it’s not what I wanted Not then or now.”

Hope kindled in Aramis’ eyes. He glanced up, heartened at his friend’s declaration. 

“It may take time, but we’re still brothers, Aramis. Still family.” Porthos smiled. “Sometimes family disappoints you, but it’s also what gets you through the tough times. That will never change.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Aramis awoke to the sun shining through the window of his room. He and Porthos had talked late into the night, able to put to rest some of the discord between them. When they’d returned to the garrison, laughing, arms slung around the others’ shoulders, he’d noticed Athos standing in the lighted doorway of his office, a smile gracing his face at the sight of his friends once again at ease with each other. Aramis had nodded before heading to his room, letting the Captain know that they were both all right and that the air of dissension that had marred their friendship since their return to Paris was, if not gone, at least eased.

So it was with a new sense of purpose that Aramis faced the morning, knowing that whatever challenges God intended for him, he would not meet them alone.

D’Artagnan and Porthos were already seated at the table just below the Captain’s balcony where Constance dished out steaming porridge into waiting bowls. The three of them looked up and smiled as he approached.

“It’s about time,” Constance scolded, teasing. “Considering how late the two of you returned last night, I thought I’d be sending d’Artagnan up to douse you with a bucket of water to get you out of bed.”

Aramis smiled congenially as he took a seat next to Porthos. He snatched a piece of ham from his friend’s plate. “It was the aroma of this fine breakfast that roused me from my slumber.”

Constance huffed a laugh, raising a brow, unconvinced. “I might believe that from this one,” she tilted a chin toward Porthos who grunted and forcefully slapped Aramis’ hand away. 

The marksman laughed, chewing contentedly on his pilfered slice of meat.

“Um, Aramis?”

At d’Artagnan’s tone, Aramis glanced across the table, frowning at the wide-eyed stare the younger man had directed out toward the courtyard. Turning abruptly, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes fell across the form of his brother.

Erias stood, uncertain, just within the gate of the garrison arch, his hat held directly before him, crushed in the grip of his fists. When his gaze landed on Aramis, he froze momentarily before taking a deep breath. Nodding as if to affirm something to himself, Erias strode across the yard purposely toward the men seated at the table.

“I thought you’d be far from Paris by now.” Aramis stood, keeping his voice even, his surprise contained. He’d spent most of the previous evening lamenting how things had turned out and had finally resigned himself to the fact that there was little he could do if Erias didn’t want a relationship with him. It had taken quite a bit of advice from Porthos – and even more wine – but this morning he’d awoken with a reluctant sort of acceptance. He could write to Erias and perhaps one day, when the war was over and the situation in Paris had settled, seek him out. Maybe by then Erias would be open to having a brother and welcome him into his family.

Erias looked over the marksman’s shoulder, swallowing at the cold looks of retribution lodged on the faces of the two Musketeers still seated at the table behind him. Constance had moved to stand near d’Artagnan’s shoulder, her brows raised in challenge as if daring the innkeeper to try to hurt her friend again.

“I’m sure my wife and daughters believe me dead by now,” he muttered apologetically. “I was halfway back to Argentan when I realized I couldn’t leave without knowing you were all right.” He dropped his gaze, shifting on his feet. “And say goodbye.”

“You could’ve written when you’d returned,” Aramis offered. “You know where I am now.”

Though he was disappointed that his brother had run away, he could now understand his decision. The adventure and danger they faced everyday was not normal, not something most people could handle. As a monk, Aramis had found he’d missed it. The day-to-day life of quiet contemplation and strict discipline had been something he’d struggled with, the need for adventure and excitement always been just beneath the surface. It had been hard work to quell the natural desire to act upon those needs, but he’d forced himself to accept the new life he’d chosen. The children had helped, but the lust for life had never quite been extinguished and the arrival of his brothers and the threat to the monastery had driven home the point.

“I know.” Erias shrugged. He raised his head, forcing himself to meet his brother’s eyes. “But I wanted you to know how sorry I am that I wasn’t there for you. Not just when you were a child, but yesterday, when you were in trouble. I left. I knew your Musketeer brothers would stop at nothing to see you safe, but you deserved no less from me, and I wanted to tell you that to your face.”

Aramis smiled, placing a hand on Erias’ shoulder and squeezing affectionately. His brother’s gaze brushed across his bruised and battered countenance, but Aramis felt no pain from his injuries in the wake of the regret clearly written on his Erias’ face. 

“You were there,” Aramis noted. “Your fears may have gotten the better of you at the end, but despite that, you were there. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

Erias grinned, his eyes suspiciously bright, basking in the light of Aramis’ absolution. “Thank you,” he whispered, his jaw clenched tight with emotion. “I just want you to know that I am very proud to be your brother, Aramis of the King’s Musketeers, and if you can someday find it within yourself to be mine, you will find me in Argentan.”

“Not Everoux?”

“It’s a good place to start over,” Erias shrugged again, resigned. “I doubt the new Comte will ever allow me to regain my property considering what has happened. And I have my daughters to consider.” He smiled. “Argentan is a good place to start over. It’s far from d’Everoux’ reach and Miren has family there. We’ll be fine.”

Aramis shook his head, planting both hands on his hips. “It’s not right. You shouldn’t lose all you’ve worked for simply because one man has the power to twist the facts to his advantage.”

“I agree,” Athos called as he made his way down the stairs. He held up a folded parchment, the King’s seal clearly evident on the fold. “As does the King.” He handed the parchment to Aramis, who quickly unfolded it and scanned the contents. “Treville has interrogated our prisoners and taken their testimony to Louis. The King would like to speak with the new Comte d’Everoux himself and has commissioned us to escort the man to Paris.”

He turned, giving Erias a knowing grin. “I did promise you a Musketeer escort back to Everoux, did I not?”

Erias’ mouth opened and closed, speech eluding him for the moment.

Athos turned to Aramis. “Are your injuries enough to keep you from accepting this assignment?”

The marksman grinned, shaking his head emphatically. “I believe a nice, pleasant ride in the country will do me more good than sitting around the garrison for the next few days.” 

“Good,” Athos returned his attention to Erias, who was gaping at the parchment Aramis had handed to him. “Monsieur LaMonte, if you are willing to testify as to what happened in Everoux, I believe the King will listen and consider your request to regain your property.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Erias finally managed. He glanced up, taking in the smiling faces before him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“There is no need for thanks,” Aramis assured him. “We are only doing our sworn duty to protect the people of France. Besides,” he nudged Erias’ arm and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “What good is having a Musketeer for a brother if you can’t call in a favor or two?”

Erias burst out laughing and pulled his younger brother in for a hug.

“I don’t suppose we should allow Aramis to go alone,” d’Artagnan spoke up. “Seeing as how he’s injured and everything.” He grinned as he scooped up another bit of porridge from his bowl. “Besides, he needs someone to keep him out of trouble.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Constance slapped him on the back of his head, garnering a feigned look of hurt from her husband. “I have a long list of chores for you.”

“So that’s what they’re calling it now?” Porthos’ chuckle was low and rumbling.

Constance snatched his bowl away without missing a beat. “You mind your tongue or I’ll put you to work as well.”

“Perhaps you could spare Porthos?” Aramis asked hesitantly. He directed the question to the Captain, glancing at the big man’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. “I suspect he’d be quite capable of keeping me from harm.”

“More likely to land you right in the middle of it,” d’Artagnan quipped.

The corner of Athos’ mouth curved up at the easy banter between his men. “It’s more the harm you do to yourself that concerns me,” he admitted. “But it is prudent to have someone watching your back. If Porthos is amenable, that is.”

All eyes were on the big man as he finished off the last bit of the ham from his plate. He turned on the bench and grinned at Aramis. “I think I could handle that.”

Aramis felt something shift into place in his chest. Things may still be strained, may still be far from perfect, but perhaps they weren’t so broken they could not be repaired.

They would never be the same men they’d been before the war, before he’d left to fulfill a vow he’d never regret making, but some bonds ran stronger than most. They’d all been brothers once. Though it may be a long road back, it was one worth traveling. The blood spilt between them was a bond that could never be broken. Like it or not, they were all family, and he would never take that for granted again.

Finis


End file.
